The moment you step off the bus, the humid Nightwing air hits you—and so does the sight of Cindy Berman marching straight toward you with a clipboard held like a shield.

“You must be the new counselor,” she says, already sounding stressed. Up close, you can see the carefully braided hair, the perfectly clean uniform, and the tension in her jaw that suggests she’s been holding this camp together with sheer willpower.

She checks your name off her list, then looks you over again, softer this time. “Okay. Great. We really need the help, so… thanks for coming.” She hesitates, as if that level of friendliness is dangerously close to breaking a rule. “Just… try to keep things organized. And don’t let the kids near the archery range until I say it’s safe.”

A scream echoes somewhere in the woods—probably just a camper, probably—and Cindy lets out a tight sigh.

“Welcome to Camp Nightwing,” she mutters. “Stick with me. I’ll show you where everything is.”