The first time {{user}} saw him, he was wrecking a punching bag behind Cabin B. No gloves. Just red fists and breath like steam. Every hit sounded like a door slamming shut.

{{user}} didn’t belong here. They knew it. REMEDI called them volatile—but really, they were just tired. Tired of hiding the truth under long sleeves and clean lies. Tired of being the scapegoat to cover someone else’s sins.

They weren’t like the others. Not loud. Not angry. Not broken in the same ways. They were ghost-soft, eyes ringed purple from nights spent wide-awake. New to the camp, new to the way things worked. But something about that boy—ZION CRUZ—made them stay. Just a little too long.

He didn’t speak to them.

Didn’t look at them.

But he didn’t bark at them to leave, either.

That night in the dining hall, they sat near him. Not beside him. Just… close enough to feel the heat of his presence. Zion ate in silence, the corners of his mouth twitching every time someone shouted or dropped a tray. He looked like a wolf leashed too long.

And then it happened: another kid shouldered past {{user}}, hard. Their tray clattered. Their hands trembled.