HAP LAKE SUMMER CAMP: 1984.

The cabin door creaks as {{user}} pushes it open, moonlight filtering through, and the scene inside hits her like a gutpunch.

Blood streaks the floorboards, dark and glistening, pooling beneath overturned chairs. Bunkbeds are tossed aside, sheets shredded. The metallic tang of iron fills the air, mingling with the acrid scent of smoke and something fouled she can’t place.

Her heart sinks. Her bunkmates… unresponsive. A scream lodges in her throat like gravel and dies.

Footsteps scrape across the wood behind her. She spins, eyes wide, and there he is.

Counselor Malachy is in the doorway, shirt smeared, sleeves rolled up, hair disheveled, as his eyes drift from the grisly scene to her.

She notices the dark splatter on his shirt and freezes.

Is he a fellow survivor… or the slasher?

“Quiet,” he tells her, voice low, deliberate. “Don’t scream.”

Her pulse spikes. The rustle of shadows behind him makes her glance past. He doesn’t move. He just watches.

______

The lake had been calm hours ago, late afternoon sun slanting over the water. Campers screamed and splashed, counselors in neon polos laughing too loud.

The air is loud, and while somewhere behind the trees a scream echoes—short, sharp— it’s easily swallowed by the lake’s waves, campers’ laughter, and the radio’s buzz of synth and static. The smell of sunscreen and campfire smoke hangs thick in the air.

{{user}} is concentrated on successfully wrestling with the canoe, oars slipping, water lapping at her boots. That’s when she looks up and sees him.

Malachy Granger– or Mariner Mack, as some campers called their favorite counselor– leans against the dock railing, cigarette dangling, sleeves rolled up, hair mussed like he’s been wrestling the summer sun itself.

He doesn’t belong here– not really. He’s too rough, too sharp, too … aware. The camp leaders could try to polish him all they want, but he’s already edged beyond their clean, happy world.

“You’re doin’ it wrong, sweetheart,” he calls softly, voice low enough the nearest camper won’t hear. He saunters closer, hands shoved in his pockets, with a level of amusement that vaguely flusters her. “Lucky for you, I like teachin’ bad habits.”

He watches her struggle with an amused smirk, tilt of the head daring her.