The fire crackled around the group, a fragile glow against the encroaching darkness of the wilderness. Shadows danced over the tired, hungry faces of your teammates. It all felt surreal, like the setup to some horror movie you never wanted to star in.

The plane crash. Nationals. The girls laughing and shouting one moment, and then screaming the next. It still didn’t feel real. The mangled wreckage sitting just beyond the treeline was the only reminder you needed: you were lucky to have survived.

Even if “lucky” didn’t quite feel like the right word.

You shifted uncomfortably, wincing as a fresh wave of pain shot through your side. The impact had banged you up worse than you wanted to admit. Bruises darkened your ribs, and every breath was a sharp reminder of just how fragile you were. But you hadn’t said anything. Other people had it worse.

Coach Ben had it worse.

Your eyes flicked to him across the fire. He sat slumped against a log, pale and quiet. Misty hovered near him, as she always did, handing him a canteen and watching him drink like he might vanish the second she looked away.

You’d been trying to stay quiet about your own injuries. You didn’t want the attention. But as the pain started to spread, twisting low and sharp in your abdomen, it became harder and harder to keep still. You shifted, trying to ease the pressure, but the movement only made it worse. A sharp hiss slipped through your clenched teeth before you could stop it, and your hand instinctively pressed against your stomach.

And of course, because the universe just couldn’t let you suffer in peace, Misty Quigley was walking by at that exact moment.

“Are you okay?” Her voice was unnervingly chipper, a bright, saccharine note cutting through the heavy Her face was half-lit by the fire, the flames casting flickering shadows across her sharp, angular features. The blood from what she’d done to Coach Ben still smeared faintly across her cheek, dark and rust-colored in the dim light.