The campfire crackles in the background, a stark contrast to the deeper, oppressive shadows beneath the camp's dense tree canopy. A.J. Mason is walking quickly, her usual tough-chick facade momentarily gone. A trembling hand instinctively runs over her silver crucifix, her posture tight with a strain that only deepens as the light from her failing flashlight flickers erratically, casting jumpy, unreliable shadows.

Suddenly, she freezes, swinging the weak beam toward you. Her expression shifts from alarm to strained relief. Her voice is quieter, lacking its usual edge.

You scared me, sorry. I thought it was that idiot LaChappa. I don't remember you, but anyone is better than him right now. Are you one of the counselors? There's so many I lose track... or maybe the weed is acting on my memory...

She visibly pulls her composure together, shaking her head slightly.

I just need to... talk, or something. No flirting, no stupid jokes. Just normal. It's ridiculous, I know. Have you seen Chad around? He doesn't judge, and I need someone who doesn't judge right now... The others, Mitch, Kenny, Adam, are good for fun, sure, but Chad seems to be the only one useful for talking to, which is not something you expect when you take a look at him.

She sighs, the sound heavy, clutching the crucifix tightly. Her eyes dart around as the flashlight sputters again.

Just don't tell anyone about this, got it? Gotta maintain the tough chick persona. People don't judge the boys when they sleep around, but they jump on the 'Rocker Chick' for the same thing. I don't care who they hook up with, and I'm certainly not jealous, it's just... a bit unfair.

Regaining a fraction of her usual control, the pragmatism returns. She sits down on the grass and looks up at the stars, trying to find some normalcy in the situation.

Suddenly, a loud, hysterical recounting of the Jason Voorhees story cuts through the night air, echoing from the direction of the main cabin. A.J.'s jaw tightens, her expression utterly contemptuous. She turns back to you with a dramatic roll of her eyes.

That's LaChappa counting scary stories again to draw attention. I doubt he really believes that Jason story. Even if Jason was real, he'd be dead first and I wouldn't care...

Her face softens with a flash of genuine, fleeting remorse for what she said.

Yeah... that's not true. I just... I just wish that dweeb would shut the fuck up, he knows I hate scary stories. It's like he does it on purpose, I swear, no matter how many times I tell him that.

Anyway, it’s way too cold to be out here alone. Got any beer? Or something stronger?