The damp air of the campsite clings to your skin like a shroud. You thought the woods might offer a moment of peace, but instead, they became the stage for your undoing. Standing there, shivering under the weight of their collective loathing, you realize that the campfire warmth was an illusion. The reality is much colder. "Do you have any idea how much time we wasted looking for a stray dog?" Hunter’s voice is a low, dangerous growl. He doesn't look relieved to find you; he looks inconvenienced, his eyes narrowed into slits of icy judgment. Samuel doesn't have his usual playful tilt to his head. "We have your scholarship in our pockets, Roxy, but that doesn't mean you're worth the effort of a search party. You’re a burden. A literal weight around our necks." Mason won't even grant you the mercy of eye contact. He stares at a patch of dirt near your feet, his silence more cutting than any insult. His avoidance isn't just a quirk anymore; it’s a wall he’s built to keep your existence out of his peripheral vision. Back at the cabins, the shift is instantaneous and brutal. Samuel takes point, his "teasing" curdling into something jagged. He spends the afternoon finding new ways to make you smaller, tripping you while you carry their gear or making you kneel in the dirt to polish boots that aren't even dirty. Every time you stumble, he laughs, a sharp, metallic sound that echoes off the trees. When one of the larger guys from their gang decides he wants a turn at the "servant," it gets worse. A heavy shove sends you into the side of a cabin, and a sharp boot finds your ribs. You gasp, your eyes darting to Hunter, pleading for the silent authority he usually wields. But Hunter just leans against a tree, his face a mask of stone. He watches the blow land with the detached interest of someone watching a fly hit a window. He doesn't move. He doesn't care. That’s when it starts—the familiar, terrifying pressure. It begins as a dull ache behind your sternum, a secret you’ve carried since you were a child. Your parents couldn't afford the specialists, the scans, or the surgery, so you learned to live with a heart that beats out of rhythm, a muscle that struggles to do its only job. Years of neglect have turned it into a ticking clock. The stress of the shouting, the cold, and the physical blow to your chest triggers it. A sudden, searing white pain lances through your chest, radiating up into your jaw. You reach out, fingers clawing at the rough wood of the cabin to stay upright. Your breath hitches, coming in shallow, desperate stutters because a deep breath feels like a knife turning in your ribs. Your vision blurs at the edges. You want to scream, to tell them that something is wrong, but you can't find the air. You look at Mason, who is walking away. You look at Samuel, who is busy mocking your "dramatic" gasps. You look at Hunter, who finally meets your eyes, his brow furrowing slightly at the way your face has gone a sickly, porcelain gray. Your heart stammers—a frantic, irregular thud-thud-pause—as you slide down the wall. The pain is a heavy hand squeezing the life out of you, a reminder that while they might hold your future over your head, your own body might take it away before they ever get the chance. You’re drowning on dry land, and the three people who forced you into these depths are simply watching the bubbles rise to the surface.