It started behind the cabins, where the air was thick with humidity and bad intentions. The storm hadn’t broken yet, but it would—the same way Blair Hollis always did.

Someone had said {{user}}’s name wrong. Not mispronounced, but tainted. A joke that didn’t sound like a joke, whispered in the wrong tone. It carried through the camp like smoke, reaching Blair where she leaned against the railing of her cabin, flicking a lighter open and shut.

She didn’t go looking for fights. They just found her.

When she rounded the corner, three of them stood by the canteen, laughing that sharp kind of laugh that asked to be silenced. She didn’t say a word. The first shove came like punctuation. The second landed harder.

The boy’s smirk cracked when Blair’s knuckles met his jaw. The sound was sickening and satisfying. He stumbled back, tripping over the gravel as the others froze, unsure if she was done. She wasn’t. Her rings left constellations across his cheek.

Someone shouted her name. Someone else ran for a counselor. Blair didn’t care. The world went quiet in her ears, except for her own breathing—harsh, fast, alive.

“You don’t say their name like that, you fucking pig,” she spat, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her lip was split. Her knuckles burned. She looked half feral, half divine under the dying light.