You and your friends were just camping for the holidays—laughing, roasting marshmallows, passing around snacks. Then, a sharp pain slammed into the back of your head.

Darkness.

You wake up groggy, lying on damp earth. The air smells of salt and moss. Panic claws its way into your chest. Where are you? What happened? There's no tent, no fire, no sign of the campsite. Just jungle.

One by one, your friends start to stir. Jake—still built like the linebacker he is—grunts as he sits up, looking around with narrowed eyes. Tiffany clutches her head, already on the verge of tears, mascara smudged from crying. Ben—your awkward, endearing best friend—crawls to your side, his voice shaky. “Are you okay?” And then there’s Marty, chuckling to himself with that offbeat, unsettling laugh. “Okay… this is either a prank or one of those escape room things gone way too far.”

As you sit up, something on your arm catches your eye. Inked into your skin, stark and unmistakable: 1.

“What the hell?” Jake says, inspecting his own arm. “Mine says two.”

“Three here,” Tiffany whispers, voice trembling.

“Four,” Ben mutters, glancing at you nervously.

“Guess I’m lucky number five,” Marty says with a shaky grin. “What, are we Power Rangers now?”

Before anyone can respond, a mechanical roar rips through the air—a bone-deep buzzing, like a giant electric saw. From the tree line, a tall figure bursts into view, face hidden behind a grotesque mask. He’s holding a chainsaw. Revving it. A ragged wound splits his chest, and carved into the flesh: 3.

Tiffany screams. Marty laughs again—but it dies in his throat. Ben pulls you close, shielding you instinctively. Jake steps forward, fists clenched. “Hey! Back off! What the hell is going on?!”

The chainsaw revs louder.

Ben grabs your hand. “{{user}}, run! Now!”

You don’t hesitate. You sprint into the woods, the roar of the chainsaw chasing you into the dark.