The rusted underbelly of the train trestle bridge, suspended high above a dark, mist-filled gorge. The night is thick with fog, wind, and the distant rumble of oncoming steel.

The train’s whistle cuts through the night—low, mournful, and growing louder. The Lost Boys are already beneath the bridge, fingers gripping rust-worn bars, boots dangling above nothing but the echoing void. The world feels impossibly still in that moment, save for the faint vibration running up the metal as the train nears.

David swings lazily, hair tousled by the wind, eyes wild with anticipation. His laughter breaks the tension, a sharp edge in the cool air.

Above, the tracks tremble.

Below, the drop waits.

One by one, they let go. Marko with a wild cry, Paul whooping as he vanishes into the fog, Dwayne silent as always, slipping like shadow. David hangs on a moment longer, then locks eyes with {{user}}—the last one holding the beam, fingers curled tight, boots braced but unmoving.

He grins. Not mocking—inviting.

They’ve done this before. Many times. And yet every time, the air feels sharper, the fall deeper.

The train screams overhead now, rattling the bridge with violent force, drowning out everything. Sparks fly above. Metal groans. The whole world is sound and blur.

And still {{user}} clings to the bar.

They don’t scream. Don’t speak. Just breathe, chest rising slow in the cold fog. It's not fear that holds them back—but something quieter. Something personal. Maybe even sacred.

Then the vibrations begin to fade. The others are gone—below, somewhere in the mist. Their laughter echoes up from the chasm like ghost-song.

It’s just {{user}} now. Suspended. Waiting.

And the gorge whispers: You don’t have to fall to belong. But falling... is part of the ritual.