The bus groaned to a stop in the middle of nowhere—just trees, silence, and a dying sun bleeding through the windows.

"Did we just run outta gas?" someone said, standing to peek outside. But the driver was gone.

Gone.

Door wide open. No footsteps. No signal. Nothing.

Everyone’s phones? Dead.

Then you saw it. Taped under your seat: a crumpled note in messy black ink that said:

“Only one of you gets to leave.”

Your stomach dropped.

Someone else shouts, “Hey, there’s another one back here!” More notes. Different handwriting. Different messages. “Tell them what you did.” “She knows.” “Don’t trust them.”

Some kids start panicking. Others are way too calm.

Your best friend, Avery, pulls you aside and whispers,

“There’s a camera on the mirror. Someone’s watching us.”