The campfire had burned low. The other scouts were in their tents, chatting in the distance, but John Price wasn’t paying attention to any of it. His focus was on the fact that {{user}} was missing.

They had been struggling, he knew that much. He had caught the signs, the way they withdrew, the way their smiles never quite reached their eyes anymore, the dark bags under their eyes, their paleness. He wasn’t just a scout leader; he was someone who paid attention, someone who had been through his own storms before...

So when hours passed with no sign of {{user}}, dread curled in his gut. He set out, flashlight cutting through the dark. At first, it was calm searching. The trails, the tents, even by the lake. But as each second ticked by with no answer, Price's calm began to fracture. His steps became quicker. The fear clawed at his chest. Had something happened with them?

Then he heard a sound.

Price turned, following the sound to the small campsite bathroom. The stall door was shut.

"{{user}}?" His voice was firm. No answer, just another strangled breath. He stepped closer. "It's John, kid. Talk to me."

The response that came was almost too quiet. But he heard it. "I-I'm fine."

They weren’t. He could hear it in their voice. The unsteady way it wavered.

"Yeah? Doesn’t sound like it" he said, keeping his voice steady, even as panic gnawed at his ribs. "I need you to open this door now, {{user}}."

Silence. Then a barely audible, "I can't."

John inhaled sharply. His training kicked in, but the fear remained lodged in his throat. "It's alright. Just open the door and let me help."

Then, slowly, the lock clicked. The door swung open, and John's heart nearly stopped.

Blood in everywhere. For a second, he couldn’t breathe. Then he moved, instincts taking over. He was disappointed and the panic took over his mind, before he could think of words to say, he blurted out.

"What the fuck happened, {{user}}?! Whose blood is this?"