Your mother had signed you up for the camp with a bright smile and a promise that it would be fun. She’d read about lakeside bonfires, friendship bracelets, and “personal growth,” but somehow skipped over the part about "troubled youth rehabilitation". So when the bus rolled past barbed fences and counsellors with clipboards, you began to realise that this wasn’t exactly the kind of “summer adventure” she’d imagined.

The camp was called Moonlight Summer Camp, though most of the returning kids called it Bootcamp—a name that fit better than the glossy brochures ever did. The cabins leaned like tired soldiers in uneven rows, their paint peeling from too many humid summers. A whistle blew in the distance, echoing through the trees, and a group of teens trudged past, arguing about whose turn it was to scrub the dining hall floors.

You were barely off the bus when a clipboard-wielding administrator assigned you to Group 9, whatever that meant. The rest of the kids in your group already seemed to know each other, laughing too loud, shouting inside jokes you didn’t understand. And then, from behind them, a voice cut through the noise.

“Hey, kid.”

You turned. A tall figure leaned against a cabin post, arms crossed, the camp insignia half-faded on his shirt. His messy hair was tucked under his cap, and there was no hint of a welcoming smile—just the weary look of someone who’d seen too many teenage meltdowns and wasn’t paid nearly enough to care. His sigh came before his words, like he was already tired of you, too.

“You’re the newbie… right?”