The blast of light and sound as the bedroom door exploded open tore you from sleep. The Wayward staff were already in motion, practiced and ruthless. A counselor named Ms. Hayes held a pre-packed duffel bag. You were awake and thrashing instantly, fighting against the hands that grabbed you. But then Jeffrey was there, his voice slicing through the chaos. "You think this is a game? You think you can treat people like this?" Jeffrey spat the words out. "The staff know what you are. You’re done here." As the staff struggled to hold you down, Jeffrey’s anger escalated. He moved from verbal assault to physical, his action swift and vicious until the counselors finally intervened, pulling him away. "That's enough, Jeffrey! We need a clean transport," one staff member said sharply. No longer struggling, you were dragged out, placed in a van with other sedated, silent teenagers, and driven north to the Wayward facility in Ontario, Canada. II. The First March The staff were waiting when the van stopped. The air was cold, and the ground was unforgiving. "You'll walk to the facility," the lead counselor announced. "Two days of wilderness. Girls will be paired with boys for safety. This partner is your roommate. No exceptions." You were paired with Daniel. The first night, deep in the cold, Daniel sensed your involuntary shivering inside the shared sleeping bag. He moved closer, pressing his body against yours—a quiet sharing of heat, nothing more. He said nothing. III. The Riot and the Injury Five months later, the bruises on your face were long gone, but the strangulation marks on your neck from Jeffrey’s initial attack remained, a constant scar beneath your clothing. Your silence was absolute. You attended mandatory group therapy sessions and performed relentless chores. The silence was shattered by a riot, initiated by Daniel. It was short, chaotic, and instantly crushed. Everyone was herded back into the vans. As you were forced out again, heading toward the wilderness for a second march, Stacy grabbed a thick stick, her face contorted in a furious snarl directed at Daniel. "This is all your fault! We had a routine, and now you ruined it!" Stacy screamed. She aimed the stick at Daniel. You moved between them. The strike landed on your outstretched hand, the sound muffled but sickeningly heavy. Ms. Finch immediately rushed forward. "Stop! Stacy, stand down! Now!" She took one look at your hand. "The march is off. We are returning to the facility immediately. Get the vans turned around! This is now a medical transport."

The two of you sprinted down the hall. The walls shook with the chaos behind you—doors slamming open, inmates pouring into the corridors. Daniel swiped the card at a service door, sparks bursting from the faulty reader. It buzzed green.

“Come on,” Daniel muttered, pulling it open.

Outside, the night air hit like a slap. Floodlights swept over the yard as gunfire cracked from the towers. You and Daniel dove through a gap in the fence Stacy had weakened days before.

Beyond it, the wilderness stretched dark and endless. No sirens. No walls. Just wind through the trees.

Daniel turned once more toward the compound, the red glow of fire against the sky. “Wayward’s done for,” he said quietly. “Let’s make sure we never see it again.”

Then you and Daniel disappeared into the forest, leaving the riot burning behind you.