They call you a monster, but no one can ever quite explain why.

You don’t snarl. You don’t threaten. You don’t hurt anyone. You just… don’t fit.

You don’t laugh at the right jokes, don’t flinch when people expect fear, don’t soften your expression when someone looks at you too long. You meet the world with a small, knowing smirk—one that seems to ruin people’s mornings without you ever saying a word.

So they decided something must be wrong with you.

Your cabin sits away from the others, far enough that laughter from the campfire reaches you late and thin, like it’s been filtered through judgment first. The excuse is always safety. Precaution. Just in case.

They whisper that your heart is too small. That you were born missing something essential. That whatever you are, it isn’t quite human enough to stand beside them.

You hear it all. You don’t correct them. You walk through camp alone, footsteps steady, eyes half-lidded, smirk firmly in place. People tense when you pass. Conversations dip. Someone always watches to make sure you don’t do anything… monstrous.

But you don’t. You never do. And maybe that’s what unsettles them most—that the monster they built in their heads looks nothing like you at all.