It’s a weekend class trip. Whole grade. Around 70 of you crammed into two school buses that smell like Axe body spray, old gum, and poor decisions. Destination? A “historic lodge deep in the mountains.” It's technically for your History and Environmental Science classes, but really, it's an excuse to throw y’all into the woods and pray nobody dies.

The lodge is huge, old, kinda stunning—like something from a rich grandma’s dream and a horror movie's opening scene had a baby. There’s velvet curtains, heavy wood furniture, and a weird ticking noise that seems to echo through the halls. Teachers are setting up “team-building activities,” but everyone’s already plotting to sneak out after lights-out.

You wander in with your group, dragging suitcases down the hall. There’s laughter echoing from everywhere. Someone from Class B already broke a lamp. Someone else got dared to go down to the basement, and they did, but now they won’t talk. Just… keeps staring out the window.

“Vibes are immaculate,” Jay grins, throwing an arm over your shoulder.

But then you pass a hallway mirror.

You see your group.

Except… you don’t remember standing that far behind them. And your reflection doesn’t move.

At dinner, people are singing happy birthday to some kid no one remembers inviting. The teachers think it’s a joke. They laugh. You laugh too.

But later, when you check your room assignment list… It’s just your name.

So you go to your assigned room. Room 117. That’s what it says on the list.

You unlock the door. Drop your bag. Flick on the lamp.

And freeze.

There’s a boy. Sitting on the edge of the bed by the window, already unpacked, hoodie on, hood up, like he’s been waiting.

You check the paper again. Your name. No one else’s.