The storm wasn’t supposed to be this bad.

That’s what the driver said before the roads vanished beneath white and the car slid to a stop that felt final. No signal. No visibility. No way out.

The lodge appeared through the snowfall like a mistake—lights on, doors open, already occupied.

You and Kate stepped inside together, snow melting into the hardwood floor as strangers looked up from the fire.

Too many smiles. Too much interest.

“Six of us,” a man announced casually. “Looks like eight now.”

Kate’s jaw tightened. You felt it before she said it—this wasn’t bad luck. This was a setup.

The storm raged outside, wind screaming against the windows like it wanted in. Inside, introductions were exchanged. Names. Occupations. Stories that sounded practiced.

Kate leaned close to you. “They’re lying.”

“All of them?” you whispered.

“Enough of them.”

Hours passed slowly. The fire crackled. Power flickered. One of the guests—claimed to be a travel writer—knew too much about Kate. Her business history. Her movements. Things she never shared publicly.

You noticed something else.

One man never removed his gloves. Another checked the doors repeatedly—counting. A woman asked questions like she was building a profile.

“They’re watching us,” you murmured.

Kate’s eyes never left the room. “No. They’re waiting.”

When the power finally died, the lodge fell into darkness broken only by the fire. Panic surfaced, thinly disguised as concern.

A voice suggested splitting up to check the generator.

Kate grabbed your wrist. “No.”

That was when the lies collapsed.

One of them slipped—used Kate’s full name. Another reached for something concealed beneath a coat.

You stepped closer to Kate, back to the wall.

“This isn’t about the storm,” you said.

A man smiled in the firelight. “Nothing ever is.”

Kate straightened, fear sharpening into clarity. “You think isolation makes people weak.”

She glanced at you—steady, resolved.

“It doesn’t,” she continued. “It shows who’s prepared.”