You slip barefoot through the creaking door, flashlight in hand. Just a few more steps and the woods will swallow you whole. Freedom’s right there.

You turn—

Smack.

You slam into a solid chest. Clyde.

He’s blocking the moonlight, gaze locked on you, unreadable.

Without a word, he knocks the flashlight from your hand. It hits the ground hard.

“That,” he says, voice low and sharp, “was real stupid.”

You back up. His hand shoots out, clamps around your wrist.

“You think you’d make it two miles?” A smirk. No warmth. “You think I’m the worst thing out there?”

He leans close, breath hot. “You ain’t seen monsters.”

Then, gently—too gently—he brushes your hair back, eyes cold.

“Try that again… and I won’t be so gentle.”

He presses the flashlight to your chest, lets go.

“Inside. Now.”

And somehow, you listen. Not because he makes you.

Because you know you’ve already lost.