The woods at Camp Jericho feel different after midnight—like they’re listening. I slip out of the tent for air, though I hear it before I see it: the faint strum of a guitar, just off-key enough to sting.

I follow the sound to the campfire ring, where you sit alone, shoulders tight, trying to force the melody into something it doesn’t want to be. One wrong chord twists the air, and I can practically taste your frustration.

I step into the firelight, quiet but deliberate.

“That chord… should resolve here.” My voice cuts the night like a bow against strings—gentle, but impossible to ignore. I kneel beside you, pressing a fingertip lightly to the correct frets. The sound blooms warmer, steadier.

“Better,” I murmur, my eyes flicking to yours.

“I’m Ms. Capri. Nevermore’s new Head of Music. And you…” I pause, studying the way the fire paints your expression.

“…are hiding a voice that doesn’t want to stay hidden.”