#noncon tw

Trees, trees, and more trees. The few windows you could see offered no view beyond dense greenery and the dull gray of metal bars covering the glass. Your gaze drifted around the room, taking in the rustic furniture and nature-themed art work that lined the walls. Cozy wasn't the word that first came to find, not given the circumstances.

The huge man kneeling in front of you was talking, but your head throbbed too badly to focus on his words, all your energy going into trying to figure out where he'd taken you. A small cabin in a forest seemed the most likely answer, but since you had been knocked out while he transported you, that was about all you could piece together.

Doesn't look like there's any houses behind the treeline… If only I could—

"Hallo?" The man's face suddenly blocked your view, forcing your attention back to him, "You understand?"

The sound of his voice caused another sharp spike of pain through your skull and you winced before mustering up a glare. "Understand what? Who are you?"

"Who…?" Dark blue eyes widened, lips parting in surprise, taken aback by your question. He reached for your hand and lifted it up, and for the first time since waking on that dingy couch, you notice the sparking diamond ring adorning your finger. "I am your husband. Did you hit your head too hard?"

He raises his other hand up as if to examine you, but you jerked away. The fog that clouding your mind since waking finally began to lift, replaced by a panicked clarity. You didn't hit your head, but you're sure that he had.

"Husband? I don't know you!" You tried to shove him back, which did nothing but prompt him to grab your wrists, which only made you freak out more. Squirming didn't help and your kicking didn't faze him either. Your mind raced trying to recall some kind of self-defense tactic that might actually work against him.

In an unknown location with a freakishly huge man who claimed to be your husband and had already used violence to knock you out cold so you were easier to move… yeah, you were fucked, but you didn't want to give up so easily.

"Let me—"Another swing of your leg towards his thigh"—go!"

He didn't even grunt in pain at that. Instead, he forced you back onto the couch, massive hands pinning your arms to your side while he leaned over you. His knee came up between your thighs, trapping you down on the cushions.

Eyes darted around to see if there was any item you could grab as a makeshift weapon the moment he released you before they landed on a familiar bag. Your large duffel bag that you use for traveling, unzipped and seemingly filled to the brim with your personal items, if the pairs of panties nearly spilling out the top were anything to go by. Your stomach twisted at the realization that this wasn't impulsive, that he must have been planning this for who knows how long.

As your resistance faltered, your captor eased off of you as his eyes follow yours. When you looked back at each other, your mouth hung slightly open and his own expression morphed into unmistakable pride.

"See, all your favorite—"

"You sick fuck!"

"Don't say that, Schatz," his grip tightened painfully, and his gaze hardened, an immediate reminder that you shouldn't get mouthy with a man who decided kidnapping you was reasonable… and had successfully went through with it. "I told you: You will be happy here. That much I promise. Just behave for me."

He released your arms, and his free hands moved to cup your face, rough palms engulfing your cheeks. You had noticed how large he was the moment you woke up and while you didn't remember his initial ambush, you doubt that you would have realistically been able to deter him from abducting you.

The fire driving you to fight him dimmed as you realized your body felt terribly wrong. Still, you forced yourself to meet his gaze, "I want to go home."

"This is home."

You didn't bother to argue, but you weren't about to agree either. Movement at the window caught your attention. A small bird perched on one of the bars, peering inside before flying back off into the trees.

"Can you at least tell me where we are?"

His head tilted to the side, genuine confusion crossing his face, "Did I not just tell you?"

Frustration threatened to overtake the panic bubbling up inside of you, but you swallow them both down, struggling in your attempt to stay levelheaded. You stare back at him while you collect your thoughts, and really take in his face. In another life, you might've thought him handsome as you passed him on the street, but right now, you wanted to claw at that face, adding to the small scars that litter it.

His thumb brushed between your brows, rubbing the skin as if smoothing out the tension, "Don't look so upset with me on our first night here together. Besides," he gestured between your ring and his own, "you agreed to this."

"I didn't agree to anything," the words bitterly jumped out before you could stop them and you knew you screwed up when his own brows furrowed. For a brief moment, you wondered if he would knock you in the head again for mouthing off. "We… we agreed, right? This—" you refused to say marriage"—takes two people, so…"

As much as you wanted to argue with him, to assert the fact that he is crazy and you're not a couple, or to even try to fight against him, you couldn't see it resulting in anything that ended in your favor.

Blue eyes softened again at your words, seemingly pleased by your attempt to placate him. "Of course. Now," he patted your thigh before standing back up at full height, "let's get settled in, ja?"

The ache in your skull began to flare again.

"Leaving already? It's your turn to buy drinks, you know?" Krueger watched as the hulking man hurriedly collected some papers, having turned down yet another invitation to poker night.

Before you, König had stayed on base most days, regardless of whether there was any pressing work to be done or not. But now, he wanted nothing more than to go back to your secluded slice of heaven and smother you with affection. Boring days filled with paper work and meetings — you were on his mind. Days spent away on dangerous missions and fighting enemies on the field — you were still there, his driving motivation to come back in one piece. And if he had any opportunities to himself, he'd sneak away to jack off to a small photo of you that he'd stolen away from a photo album on your desk the night he packed up your belongings.

You had set your difficult behavior aside, finally cooperating to make married life easier by freely giving your own love to him. König was immensely proud of how far the two of you had come together and he even begun to toy with the idea of letting you go outside again since you had been such a good wife for him.

"Skipping out on us again?" Horangi asked, walking up to stand beside Krueger. "Not cool."

"Buy your own drinks," König's voice was unnecessarily harsh. "I'm going home. Meine Frau—"

Krueger smirked, "Ah, so that's what this is about. Maybe she can join us next poker night. As the prize, of course, if you care to share with us." He gestured at himself and Horangi, who held his hands up.

"Bastard. I should beat—" König stopped himself, clenching his jaw under the dark hood.

"Beat what, friend?" Krueger's voice was dripping in amusement, obviously looking to stir up trouble. "I'm simply curious after all of your bragging."

A rough shove on the shoulder as König walked by was the only response he gave the Austrian, resisting the temptation to throw the sleazy bastard into the concrete flooring face first. He doesn't intentionally brag, but he can't help bringing you up whenever he gets an opportunity. Doesn't mean that he'll share you with anyone he works with. The thought alone started to anger him again, so instead, he focused on you, the sweet wife that was waiting patiently for him at home.

This had been the longest time he had spent apart from you and it had been unbearable, even more so when he thought back onto your last few nights together. And he really shouldn't have been thinking like this before even leaving base, but he couldn't help wondering if anything had changed while he was gone.

Before deployment, König had fucked you relentlessly with his thick cock on your marital bed, intent of giving you a baby. To complete our family, he'd explained to you, using his long fingers to push back some cum that leaked out of your pussy. Your groans, to him, were proof of how badly you wanted to be bred by your husband.

A part of the reason he had been so glued to you was because of a sense of urgency — he wanted to get you pregnant before he left. The rest was pure addiction to your warmth around him every time he sheathed himself inside of you.

But as ready as he was to fuck you the moment he got home, he was just as excited for the quiet moments between the two of you. He had grown accustomed to hearing you hum while you baked in the kitchen as he sat at the table, hand sewing up torn holes in his hood, the two of you occasionally trading thoughts. A life that you two had built up together.

Would you greet him with a smile and a kiss when he got home? Hopefully. Maybe you'll throw your arms around him and tell him that you have good news, that his seed had taken and you'll have a little bundle of joy in the house by this time next year.

Fantasy tends to be kinder than reality, though, because when König finally walks up to the cabin, dread sank deep into his chest. The door he always kept locked up tight was blown wide open, and your wedding ring lay shining bright against the dark porch wood.

Whumpee’s pants are undone and askew on their hips, revealing a sliver of their underwear. Ashamed, the first thing Whumpee tries to do once untied is pull their pants back up, but they're too weak or injured to do so. Someone else has to help them.

The other counselors had led the runts toward the west amphitheater, this morning’s lesson on big emotions and healthy coping preceding a fun paintball tag activity. Lucky you, you’re stuck in the stuffy, artisanal chalet, sweeping up egg yolks and washing scratched plates. And it was quiet, suffocatingly so. The type of quiet that echoes your routine breaths into heaves, building up every whistle of the warm wind into an exhale down your back. No matter the generic pop station playing on the old radio—everything feels slinking and inky. It would be comforting, but there was this itchy feeling, latched onto the heat and carried down your spine in a succession of icy shivers. Eliciting the kind of alertness that comes from being watched. It doesn’t help that the window above the sink looks right into the head of dense forest with trees that threatened to swallow the acres whole. Whether you look ahead or down into the sink, there is a stalking feeling that crept from in between those evergreens.

But you keep washing. The sooner you finish, the sooner you can cool off in your cabin before your team scavenger hunt. Your gloved hand grips the handful of utensils tightly, the other furiously running up and down the dirtied silverware. It’s here, in your mindless rinsing, where the faucet water split off around the heads of the utensils, that you notice it: the radio crackling.

Small, itsy crackles, like shy sparks of a fire. Not enough to scare you, just enough for you to notice.

You pause your work. Turn your head a little to the left, eyes landing directly on the small radio box. It skips and cracks some more, the voice distorting into a monotonous, robotic utterance– just barely above a whisper, combating against the scratch.

It was sudden. It was out of place. It was eerie. 

You had had enough after a grueling ninety seconds; you drop the silverware back into the sink with a grating collision, stalking over to the rustic box with the soapy gloves coming off. You fill the space with a sigh and follow with hums—anything to let your heart catch up with your mind. You’re okay, even if it was hard to feel it.

Bashing the old box doesn’t do much, nor does tuning the station. You sigh defeatedly, running your fingers along the top in search of the power knob.

And then it was like the radio noticed you noticing its stammers and it needed a moment to itself. It screeched and burst with static. You jump back, hands cupping your ears, “Damned thing!”

Damned it is—for you swear, you heard the static form words. 

Che..ck…y—r..win..dow…

Maybe you’re making it up. Maybe your brain is fighting against reason and wanted to be scared. Just maybe. But the static stops after that. The music returns normally, as if there were no interruption—best to just leave it alone.

And then there is a person in the window. A glimpse, rather, a head.

Dark hair, hazy features. Like it was a dream, and despite all sense of familiarity, a face to the feeling was lost to nature. 

Your body goes stiff. The gloves fall from where you placed them on the shelf with the softest, rubber thud, and you jump, gasping a breath of shock. 

Only when you had just begun to rationalize what you’d experienced—an elaborate prank by the other counselors, an ill-timed janitorial appearance following a wildly imaginative auditory hallucination, a breath of wind vaguely resembling something—did you jump out of your skin. You aren’t alone anymore; a soft, questioning whisper of your name made that clear.

Dan Heng stands before the door, eyebrows furrowed softly. “Are you alright?”

Your smile breaks uneasily. You nod, “Yeah. The radio..it was just on the fritz…spooked me a little.” You don’t know why you decide to omit what you think you saw. Maybe to tell yourself that you actually didn’t see anything. You’re just in your head. “Did you need something?”

“Waters,” he says flatly, “the paintball group is wearing the kids out in the heat…March asked me to bring some over.”

You nod. Let the silence take over. 

He’s almost hesitant to move, as though the kitchen is your sacred space. It’s in a wordless succession of awkwardness that you usher his direction toward the industrial refrigerator. Dan Heng moves, dragging a wheeled cooler behind him. The way the wheels squeaked, meek sounds fighting for attention, made you remember the sink was still furiously pouring down.

You damn near jump out of your shoes, quick to spin and turn the sink off. And when you do, you make sure to glare out of the window, angling your head both left and right to panorama as much as you can. 

There’s nothing. No one. 

But there’s Dan Heng. There are still his eyes, whose glare is warm and alive—real. And you feel them looking at you, albeit shyly. To you, then away, to you, then away, to you—

“Is your schedule packed today?” 

“With a whole bunch’a cleaning and supervising duties,” you dryly laugh, nodding. “I have a break after this…that is, until lunch.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah, it does.”

“I can keep you company tonight. At dinner—I also got shackled with cleaning…” He says, his voice quickening out of embarrassment. A light blush blooms over his cheeks. It’s endearing. It has you smiling widely.

“That’d be nice,” you reply. “Keep an eye out for me. I’ll probably be sitting right back there, hoping the kids don’t notice me.” You point out of the kitchen, toward the back right corner of the mess hall. It’s a dusty corner, right beside the back door, decked with a set of old chairs and cobwebs.

He nods, fingers dancing on the top of the now-closed and full cooler. “Back corner, gotta stay inconspicuous, okay, got it.”

The smile that comes across your face is slightly humored, slightly coy—you find his quiet mumbles endearing. Cute, even.

“Well, I’ll see you,” he says awkwardly, dragging the cooler away with him.

You wave at him, leaning against the counter. 

See you.

It wasn’t just the heat making you hot anymore. It’s excitement, racing through your veins on a mission, bringing the same name and face to your brain. As the day slowly passes along, you find yourself returning to your short interaction, your heart beating impatiently, waiting for the night to fall.

And when it comes, it comes just as vengefully. Even in the night, the heat refused to subside; instead, it swelled, enveloping your skin in a sticky, humid layer. The AC does little to nothing with 260 children vibrating around, and other counselors and staff stalking around, patrolling. The stove is still warm, radiating heat throughout the kitchen and into the dining area. You and Dan Heng, sitting right in the way of the hot draft, are suffering. Both of you are slicked with sweat, shining under the high yellow lights. 

Normally, the heat would cling to your nerves and render you irritable. But tonight, as much as it bothers you, it has no real effect. Not when you’re talking to him.

He’s surprisingly easy to talk to. You’d thought the butterflies in your stomach would be a hindrance, a stupefying effect that’d render you a blubbering mess, but they brought a sense of familiarity, closeness. He’s charming, he’s endearing, he’s a good distraction from all the heat and the troubles left at home. He keeps you here, in this moment, in those autumnal irises, at ease. 

Your hand runs down his forearm as you laugh, albeit too hard, but you’re a forward woman—you’re making a move. “I can’t believe that,” you let your hand linger, catching his eyes. You give him a coy, small smile. “I’m trying really hard to imagine you fighting. You’re too…calm a guy; I would’ve never guessed.”

“Yeah, well, neither did the kid,” he laughs. “I apologized to him after, though. I felt really bad.”

“I would hope so! You said you broke his nose—”

“I think I broke his nose,” he corrects.

“See, I’ve been punched in the nose before. D’you know how hard you’ve gotta hit someone to think you broke their nose?”

“Why were you punched in the nose?” He asks, softly laughing, covertly switching the subject.

You pull your hand up to lean your head on it, adjusting your seating position. You turn toward him, letting your high foot knock slightly against his leg. “Ah, well…” you sing, bouncing your leg, “I got in a bit of trouble when I was younger. Gossiping, arguing…eventually, I had to back up all the shit I was talking. It happened a lot, and my dad got fed up, so he started sending me here. It was right out there, in the courtyard, where Mei Bosenmori punched the shit out of me. Not much changed for me here.”

“Is it okay to ask why she punched you?”

“Yeah,” you nod, “basically, I was run—”

“Um, excuse me, miss?” A small voice approached.

You turn around and see a girl, one of the younger children, standing with her legs crossed and her face hot. You immediately straighten up with concern. “Are you alright?” You ask, completely turning to her.

“I need to pee,” she says flatly. “Can you take me to the bathroom?”

You laugh, awkwardly and dryly. “Uh…you can’t take yourself? The outhouse is right out there.”

“Campers aren’t allowed to leave without supervision.” Now her tone is matter-of-fact, and her expression is annoyed. She crosses her arms with a huff, “I’m not getting in trouble ‘cause you’re lazy.”

“Whoa, whoa, hey now. Insulting others is not how we get what we want, now is it?” Dan Heng interjects, his voice soft and leading. The child seems over it, shrugging as she nods along. He smiles, “Why don’t I take you to the restroom? Is that alright?”

She visibly recoils, stepping back. “Um…you’re a boy. Boys and girls shouldn’t go to the bathroom together, unless he’s a pervert. Are you a pervert?”

You snicker softly, pinching the bridge of your nose with slight exasperation. It’s only been four days, and these kids have tested your patience and your will. It’s hard to understand why you took up this job, but you won’t lie and say you’re not entertained. You decide to humor her, clapping your hands on your knees as you stand up.

“Let’s get you to the bathroom, yeah?”

The breeze offers little to no brevity as you stand outside. The outhouse offers little to no privacy as the little girl pisses in the low toilet. It’s loud, and quite uncomfortable for you to listen to; you take two wide steps to your left, crossing your arms with a huff.

The trees and shrubs rustle with the wind. You find yourself looking up into the night, at the dark clouds that loom over the acreage. You’re hoping it doesn’t rain; that would suck. The campers would get all snot-nosed and whiny, and catching a cold in the middle of the woods would be a serious damper. Nurse Natasha could only do so much for those kids.

“Miss? Hello?” The little voice calls, shrouded by the outhouse’s wooden walls. “Heeellloooo?”

“Yes? Yes, I’m here; what is it?”

“Um…there’s no toilet paper in here.”

You sigh exasperatedly, throwing your head back over your shoulders. It would be the hottest day when your patience is tested. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you step closer to the outhouse. It smells a bit rotten, like cured urine and broccoli with cheese lunches. You frown deeply, “You can’t…dunno, shake it off?”

“Ew!” She yelps, “No! That’s so gross!!”

“You’re about to go back to your cabin; you have to shower anyway!” You argue back. Then you sigh again, drooping your shoulders defeatedly. If there’s anything you’ve learned about this little girl in the last ten minutes, it’s that she’s as stubborn as a fat rock. “Whatever..just wait a second. Don’t go anywhere.”

“Wasn’t planning on it!”

You pull the neglected walkie-talkie from your left hip, tweaking the station until you hear a faint buzz emerge. You clear your throat, announcing yourself, “Uh, the dining hall outhouse needs toilet paper, stat. …Bratty camper, won’t leave without it. …Over?”

The walkie crackles for a second. Then you hear a deep breath, but it sounds like it's coming from farther than you’re holding the device. An acute chill races up you. You look over your shoulder slightly, just to alleviate the feeling that someone is behind you, breathing on you. There’s nothing but the long, darkened forest.

“Fresh roll is heading your way.” A voice comes from the walkie. You turn your attention back to the device. A small smile breaches your face; you can tell it’s Dan Heng.

Then the walkie rumbles again. “Y’know, you don’t need to say ‘over’, right? We aren’t special agents or anything.” That’s March—her teasing tone gives her smile away. 

You shake your head, “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just get here. Hurry.”

You’re looking over your shoulder again as you say that. It feels like the trees have eyes, or something, someone who does is stalking among them. You creep toward the wretched outhouse, just to know you’re not alone.

“Someone’s cranky,” March giggles, “Y’sure you’re not the bratty camper?”

“Oh, shut up.”

“We need to keep this channel clear, everyone.” And that’s Mr. Yang. His steady, stern voice silences even the static. 

You hook the walkie back on your waistband. You slot your hands in your back pockets, crossing your legs as you stand in the breeze. You tell yourself that the feeling you’re getting is the thick air running against your dewed skin, not someone ghosting over you.

Even as a kid, you’d get the feeling that someone was lurking nearby. Back in the day, the camp was less structured than it is now: the wooden guardrails and barbed fences didn’t exist to keep the woods at bay. Deer and ducks and foxes would wander all over campus, rummaging in trashcans and homing in dark corners. It was explainable then—the weird noises and stalking energy. You have to work overtime now to convince yourself that the earth is simply alive around you, and nothing else.

But, there it goes again: the rustling, the whisper of a presence. Leaves crinkle, branches dance. 

You whip around, eyes wide, then squinting, surveying the dark. Nothing seems out of order. If anything, it seems too normal, too stagnant. Like a disguise in plain sight. Goosebumps raise all over your body. 

And it’s so quiet. The sounds of the dining hall are fairly contained within the thick walls. It’s the buzzing of the bugs, the yellow lights, you keep telling yourself. Maybe even a family of raccoons or foxes under the brush. Something, anything to make sense of what sounds like footsteps, rapid and hardly concealed in the blades of grass. 

“Hello?” You call out. You don’t know why—you curse yourself mentally as soon as it comes out.

There isn’t a reply. You don’t feel relief at that.

The breeze has picked up momentarily; there, again, go the footsteps. Closer, like they’re coming behind you. Your skin begins to crawl.

You spin around again. “Is someone there?” You ask, your voice slightly shaking. 

Again, there isn’t a reply. Just the darkness, the forest that seems to lurch over you the longer you stand here.

Eyes pressing tightly, you begin whispering to yourself to Get out of your head, idiot; it’s nothing; it’s not real. Making a full revolution, you turn back west, ready to walkie on the status of the toilet paper.

You nearly jump out of your skin, yelping as your eyes open to reveal Stelle. “Oh my fucking God! You scared me!” You say, a steadying hand on your chest. Then, you’re swatting at her with your opposite hand, “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

She looks so confused. Her head tilts, and her hand raises, a roll of toilet paper around her wrist, “Well, excuse me. I’ll be more mindful the next time I decide to do you a favor.”

“Whatever,” you exhale. She passes off the roll, and you brush past her, knocking on the outhouse door. “Delivery!” You sing. You roll your eyes after the girl quickly opens the door and receives her toilet paper, slamming it back shut.

Stelle looks even more confused. “Okay, what’s got your panties in a twist?”

“Nothing, I…” you trail off, your eyes drifting behind her, into the woods. The greenery moves with the wind, which has tempered off into a steady whisper. And you’re not hearing what you thought were footsteps; and you’re not feeling what felt like eyes stalking you. You exhale deeply, shaking your head. “I’m just tired. It’s been a long ass day.”

Stelle laughs, “Get used to it. They’re only gonna get longer.”

Your eyes are still focused behind her. “Yeah, I bet,” you say.

The overhead speakers crackle; the alert song chimes. It’s seven PM: DING DING, DONG DONG, and then it’s Ms Himeko’s voice saying, “Good evening, Paradise Valley; it’s seven PM; dinnertime has ended. Campers, please return to your cabins for the night. We hope to see your bright smiles tomorrow, for another day of growth and prosperity.”

—-----

On Fridays, the campers are rewarded with a big bonfire and an extra hour of recreation. It’s said to reward the children for their progress—positive reinforcement, to give them an incentive to keep going. Kids who are especially petulant or stagnant are not rewarded: they have to sit out, write reflections, and watch all of their peers run and laugh and play.

When you were a camper, oftentimes, you found yourself a part of the Purgatory Plain—the name given to the loser’s circle. A short temper and eager fists always warranted the punishment. Now, you’re here, the supervising counsel to the straggling bunch.

You’re resigned to a quiet edge of the courtyard, to the left of the main building. The lights are on inside; Mr Yang and Ms Himeko are inside, working tirelessly, no doubt. Kids and counselors have been in and out, visiting Nurse Natasha for band-aids and ice packs and asthma pumps. Your group is arranged in a circle of log stools around an unlit fire pit. It’s the only part of the campground unalive. 

Sunday is busy reviewing their reflections, humming to himself as he jots notes on a sticky note. The kids sit, twiddling their thumbs as they listen to Stelle drone on, telling her third ghost story of the night. Even you’re getting tired of listening to her spooky voice. You’re checking your watch, sighing as you see only ten minutes remain. At least Saturdays are your off days. Ms Himeko takes over, and the counselors can do fuck all. 

“Okay, I’ll make this one quick. Seems like I’m losing you guys,” Stelle says, crossing her legs.

Sunday shakes his head, sparing her a glance. “I think what you’re losing is a sense of what this is supposed to be. You’re not supposed to be entertaining them.”

“They’re just kids. Don’t you think it’s cruel to have them sitting here, watching their friends have fun?” Stelle argues. Some of the kids start to murmur in agreement. They seem more entertained by the thought of the pair arguing than they ever were in the ghost stories. “Besides, I’m telling scary stories. They’re getting scared—aren’t you scared, guys?” The campers shrug, some bold enough to deny her claim. “What better way to teach them how to be better than through fear?”

“That’s besides the point,” Sunday refutes, shaking his head. “Instead of scaring them, you should be—”

“Oh my God, will you two just stop already?” You groan, throwing your head back. “I mean, just let her finish the story. They don’t even care. What’s the harm?”

Sunday clicks his tongue, shaking his head. You give him a grimace as you look him up and down. All pompous and proper, he is; he’s the type of kid you would’ve crucified when you were younger.

“Anyway, now that Sunday wasted our time, I’m gonna have to condense this even more.” Stelle reaches behind a pair of campers, plucking Sunday’s nape. He flinches and hisses, and she sticks her tongue out at him. “There’s an old urban legend about this place, about a guy called The Hunter.” And then she looks at you, nudging a shoulder in your direction, “Y’know what I’m talking about, right?”

“I’ve never heard of it.” You shrug. “Y’sure you’re not making it up?”

“Am not!” She defends. Then she turns her attention back to the kids, deepening her voice. “Paradise Valley is built on the grounds of what used to be a military base. Like, way, way back in the day—I’m talking ancient times.”

“Like, when your mom was born?” A camper snickers. 

A few of the others tumble into laughter. You let a few chuckles fly.

“No. Jerks. How old do you even think I am?”

“Dunno. Forty?”

“I do not—”

“For goodness sake, get back to the story!”

“Right. Anyway, there was this dude who worked at the base. He was a craftsman, a blacksmith; he forged weapons for the militia. All types of swords, spears; really good, one-of-a-kind work. And, well, he made the fatal mistake of falling in love. With a kept woman!” Stelle gasped and put her hands on her cheeks in faux-shock, looking around the group for reactions. No one played into it, so she cleared her throat and continued, “He was super in love with her. He started writing her poetry, crafting her gifts. One day, she came by, and he gifted her a blade. He said it was so she could protect herself when he couldn’t.”

“And, so what? Her man found out?” You ask.

Stelle smirks. “Her man found out, and, oh, he was livid. I mean, some random blacksmith is putting the moves on your woman behind your back, so what do you do? You confront him, of course; but The Hunter didn’t appreciate being pressed over who he thought was his woman. You see, he loved her a lot, he was basically obsessed with her. He’d do anything for her, to have her as his. And so, he killed her husband. Right there,” she points to the main building, “right on these grounds.”

Your eyes drift to the side of the building. You swallow thickly because there’s someone there. Someone faintly outlined in the shadows, someone who you feel is watching you. You don’t try to squint; you try to scoot to where Stelle will block your visage. And you shake your head, returning your attention to her story.

“The husband also happened to be the general, so, when the rest of the military found out, all Hell broke loose. They dragged The Hunter down to the lake, by the lovers’ rock, and sentenced him to death.”

“Why do they call him The Hunter, then?” You ask, nervously chewing on your lip. You don’t know why, but something about the story is unsettling. 

“‘Cause, they say he stalks the woods, the lake, specifically, looking for revenge. Once he sets his eyes on a pretty, taken woman, he’ll stop at nothing ‘til he gets to have her. He’ll hunt her down and take down every obstacle in the way he failed to before.” Stelle says, her voice especially dark, but her eyes bright. You swallow thickly. Her smile grows, “And that’s why, kids, don’t sneak out to lovers rock! ‘Cause then, you’ll catch the unfortunate attention of The Hunter, and then—”

DING DING, DONG DONG. “Good evening, Paradise Valley; it’s nine PM, the Friday night fun is officially coming to an end,” Ms Himeko’s voice rang out all over the acreage. All of the participating children erupted into a chorus of groans. She chuckled as she continued, “Campers, please return to your cabins for the night. Remember, tomorrow is community outreach day. I hope to see those beautiful smiles, eager and excited to make a change in attitude and the community.”

The outdoor lamps flickered on and bright; one by one, the electric lanterns on the cabins lit, signaling the passing time for the campers. In droves, the campers started to trek to their cabins. Supervising counselors ushered them, cleaned up after them, while you and Stelle stretched your legs, yawning in succession. 

Sunday pressed his lips together, slotting the papers neatly together before rising to his feet. “I’m gonna take these to Ms Himeko,” he announces, and then he turns to the children. They awkwardly follow his lead, rising to their feet. He gives them a small smile, “C’mon guys, I’ll escort you to your cabins.”

They took off, Sunday in the lead. At their leave, March strolled over with Caelus, each of them towing a grin. 

“Hey, loser’s club. Long time, no see,” Caelus greeted, earning a punch to the shoulder from his sister. 

“You’re such a dick, sometimes,” Stelle replied. Her brother stuck his tongue out at her, but she just rolled her eyes. “It’s not that bad over here. I got to scare those little punks with a bunch’a ghost stories.”

“They weren’t scared.”

“You were, though,”

You flip her off, rolling your eyes. It’s not that you were scared because of the story—it was it in combination with whoever you saw at the side of the main building. And the darkness that lurks around the edges of the camp, and the eyes that you swear live inside of it. You’re creeped out more than anything.

But now that she’s reminded you of it, you find yourself losing place in the conversation and staring at the side of the building again. Now that it’s illuminated, only temporarily, you may find an answer. 

And you were right: he was there. You feel like you’ve seen this man before; like his long, dark hair, and tall, lean frame linger in faint memories. It’s a gnarled familiarity. The feeling doesn’t make you feel good. If anything, you feel a bit more scared. Your breath is caged in your chest, trapped by an airless gasp.

He’s lit a cigarette. The smoke curls into a miniature cloud before drifting into the air. The bonfire still rages on in the center of the courtyard, but you swear, you can smell the nicotine, specifically, and feel the faint chill of the menthol. He looks at you; you instantly run cold.

His eyes are sharp and bright. It feels like when a lion has found its prey, burying itself in the weeds before pouncing. He takes another drag– a slow, long inhale that for some indescribable reason, you find yourself mimicking.

A long, deep breath in; hold it, let the air sit on your chest; release it, and watch your thoughts dance away. He’s still watching you through the smoke. You can feel it.

And you jump, because when you open your eyes from a slow blink, March is nose-tip-to-nose-tip with you, calling your name. “Hey, where’d you go?” She sings, concern gleaming in her blue eyes. “You like, completely zoned out. I’ve never seen someone do that before; it was so freaky!”

You take a step back from her. You’re breathing semi-normally. Nodding, you force a reassuring smile, “I’m tired. As fuck. And, not gonna lie, Stelle’s story did creep me out a little.” Now, you’re rubbing your bicep sheepishly. You ignore her shit-eating grin. “I mean, fuck, we’re in the middle of the woods. It’s totally reasonable I’m scared.”

“It is,” March drawls, pouting. She pinches Stelle on the arm and the latter hisses, then whines. “I’d be scared too. Don’t let her tease you for being real!”

“Dude, whatever. That wasn’t even the scariest story I told.”

“Which one was it?”

“The alleged urban legend about some guy called The Hunter,” you answer before she can. Your eyes flicker behind her, and the guy was gone. You swear, your heart stops for a second. “He killed the husband of the woman he was obsessed with, then was brought to justice by his colleagues. Now he allegedly stalks the woods and, what was it? Murders people out at lovers rock?”

“He murders the guys at lovers rock, ‘cause he’s trying to secure the love of his life.” Stelle corrects.

March looks horrified. She steps closer to you again, almost cowering against you. “Goodness! That’s sick—and you told this to the campers?!”

“Yes, she did.” Sunday says, taking March’s place beside Stelle. Caelus takes the time to try and dap him up, but Sunday just gives him a tight smile and a small shake. “I’m not dealing with crying campers at three AM. I’ve had enough.”

“Neither am I.” Stelle shrugs.

You, March, and Caelus all share quick glances. Then, in a quick second, you’re all touching the tip of your index to your nose, yelling out “Not it!” in unison.

“I said it first!” March squeals, immediately pointing accusatory fingers at you two.

Sunday rolls his eyes.

“No, you didn’t!” Caelus argues back. “You didn’t move until you saw me move.”

“Don’t lie,” you interject, eyes narrowing at Caelus. They split for a second to look in the distance; nothing. “You both looked at me first. I literally watched you look at each other before I said, first, ‘not it’!”

“You’re a bold face liar!”

“What the hell are you talking about?!”

“Guys, guys, guys,” Stelle projects over you all. She leans in closer, “I have a solution: we just make Dan Heng do it.”

Her smile is cheshire. A similar one pulls at Caelus’s lips; March gives an upside down smile, nodding as she visibly mulls it over. You’re paused, feeling a bit embarrassed at how your lips instantly twitched at the mention of his name.

“You’re so smart, sis,” Caelus compliments, holding up his fist. 

The lights around flicker out. Only the bonfire and the moon remain alive. All campers are in their cabins and accounted for. You’re officially off the clock.

“Dan Heng’ll totally do it, too!” March chimes in, clapping her hands excitedly. “He’s such a—”

“I’m gonna do what?”

He appears out of nowhere, so close to you, just right behind March. She yips like a puppy. You jump back, gasping slightly. You didn’t even see him coming; when did he get here?

The bonfire roars, inflating with a bright glow. Some counselors have thrown it more logs.

“You scared the shit out of me!” Stelle exclaims.

“Did you think he was The Hunter?” Sunday teases.

You can slightly see her flip him off– she’s just barely swallowed by the encroaching shadows. The orange light beams against the backside of him; you can see the creases whatever expression he sends back faintly.

“Sampo smuggled in a case of beer, Serval’s got a radio, a few others are getting more snacks. A counselor’s bonfire,” Dan Heng begins, not waiting for a response, or dignifying the drama. “Are you guys joining?”

“OMG, yes!” March chirps. And then she’s bouncing up and down; then, wrapping an arm around your neck, pulling you as she then envelopes Sunday. She’s jumping excitedly between you two, “It’s you guys’ first year at Paradise Valley! You get to experience Paradise After Dark for the first time!”

“Paradise After Dark?” Sunday parrots confusedly.

“When the counselors are off the clock on a Friday, they get to have their fun.” You answer before anyone else can. “When I was a camper here, we used to be able to hear them laughing and playing around ‘til, like, one AM. Sneaking down to the lake, to lovers rock, playing hide ‘n seek and shit.”

“Himeko is a little bit stricter on us,” Dan Heng replies. Your attention jumps to the main building again. It’s face is a warm orange; the sides and back fall into a swallowing shadow. “She’s all for us having fun, but safety’s first.”

Caelus looks over his shoulder, tucking his hands in his pockets. “If anyone’s sneaking out and around, the stealth has to be on one-hundred. She’s up super late with all that coffee she drinks, and she’s upped the security since the campers have gotten bold in the last few years.”

March releases you and Sunday, turning on her heels. She takes a few steps forward, out of your circle. You roll your shoulders, stepping behind March. Dan Heng gives way to you, his presence ghosting against you. 

The two of you exchange brief eye contact.

“Here’s hoping no one disappears by the creek this year!” Stelle exclaims. You can just tell she’s winking at you.

March announces to the group that she’s going to make s'mores, but you drift into Dan Heng. He feels a bit closer all of a sudden; there’s a bit of a breeze that ebbs against you. He, or the environment, smells like freshness: like the earth, with a twinge of perspiration, and a distant layer of cinder. You instantly notice the heat around you— you’re radiating it.

You give him a half-smile, averting your gaze forward, into the fire. “Did that actually happen?” You ask. You’re half-actually-curious.

He tilts his head toward you slightly, “Only once, last summer. It was March; we were playing a big game of hide and seek, and she got turned around in the woods. We didn’t find her until the next morning, almost to the next camp all the way down there.”

“Goddamn!” You exclaim, falling into a bit of snickers. Paradise Valley is in the complete ass of the woods— the next camp is almost forty minutes away by car. “How long was she walking for?? How could she not tell she was going the wrong way?”

“It all looks the same,” Dan Heng replies, shaking his head and softly laughing. “You’ve seen how dark it gets out here, so I don’t blame her. But sometimes, I think about why she didn’t just stay put. She might’ve been scared, but we were right there; we would’ve found her.”

You look at Dan Heng again. The light of the flames only reaches so far behind him. The surrounding area of the camp is swallowed by trees, by vast blackness. 

You swallow, licking over your dry lips. “Maybe something scared her. She was trying to get away, trying to get back, and got mixed up that way.”

Dan Heng shrugs unassuredly. He begins walking, slowly, like he’s waiting for you to follow. You do, picking up beside him in a slow crawl behind your friends. Your arms are brushing each other as you walk. You pull your eyes slowly to his.

“Maybe it was The Hunter.” You sneer.

He gives you a small chuckle. “Maybe it was. …Who knows.”

“I know. Ghosts aren’t real.”

He’s laughing again, this time a little harder, genuinely, with his whole chest. It’s a sweet sound, one that you find yourself wanting to hear again.

You give him a little shove, but pull yourself behind his short shuffle forward. You’re slightly touching him again. “You believe in ghosts?”

“I believe in energy, yes,” he shrugs. His eyes are golden by the fire. “Memories are what keep the past alive; they’re full of emotions, of feelings. A place or an experience can make you feel something. People are incubators for feelings. Our love, hate, regret… they never die.”

Your eyes drift to the trees. 

They’re so thick, so old, so full of life. You wonder how many memories they hold, how much love, hate, and regret buzzes inside them. Maybe that’s what The Hunter is—an amalgamation of feelings, of a life, or so many, once lived and burned into the world. And maybe that’s what the creeping feeling is: it’s the lingering breaths running along your skin, awareness of the life once present. 

In a way, it becomes a little more breathable. You inhale slowly, pleasantly, and you feel a relaxation buzz softly within your bones.

“That’s beautiful,” you say, eyes still latched onto the woods. “I’ve never thought about it that way.”

“Isn’t that the best thing about meeting new people?” Now, he’s looking at you. There’s a fondness over his expression, a softness that makes you feel girlish. You start to nibble on your lip. “You get to learn something new.”

“Yeah,” you nod. 

Serval has perched on a log stool and strums a deafening chord on the guitar. You recognize it as the old acoustic one from the recreation room. It’s a bit out of tune; Serval’s fingers are quick to tweak before she tries again. This time, a much more melodious sound flows out, and the quiet that overtakes your bunch is less judgemental.

You and Dan Heng find seats at the bonfire beside Sunday and Caelus, respectively. March is on the right side of Sunday, beside Stelle, holding two sticks of marshmallows over the fire. Her tongue sits readily between her lips.

Sampo emerges from the dark abyss of the dining hall with Luka and Evanescia following; the former happily lugs a wide case of beers, while the latter two wheel out a wooden keg. You begin to wonder where they hid all of this stuff.

“A keg? Seriously? What the hell is going on here?” You laugh out.

“Sampo’s always got a trick up his sleeve,” Caelus answers. Stelle and March are rolling their eyes.

“Indeed I do!” Sampo chirps, wrapping his arms around the twins. Beer bottles are slotted between his fingers; they clink sharply with his movements. His grin is wide as he continues, “It’s what keeps the fun alive! The campers aren’t the only ones who get to enjoy themselves.”

You look over to the keg again. Serval is already being handed a cup. She sniffs the mystery liquid, sloshes it around in her cup, and takes a small sip. Luka is teasing her. You look back to Sampo inquisitively. “What’s in it?”

His grin grows impossibly wider. “Want a cup?” He asks. “It’ll cost ya’.”

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Stelle warns. She’s smashing the toasted marshmallow between two graham crackers. March is licking her lips as she watches.

“Why not?” You ask, half laughing.

Caelus takes the beer from Sampo, tossing the cap over his shoulder. He takes a quick sip. “All types of hell live at the bottom of that keg.”

“You’ll be fucked up from tonight ‘til Tuesday morning. I’m telling you, it’s not worth it.” Stelle adds.

You look at Dan Heng in total disbelief. He gives you a confirming nod. Sampo is still laughing. You whip your head back to him. “Seriously, what the hell is in it?”

“A little bit of everything,” he winks, pulling from around the twins and walking behind you. He hands Sunday and Dan Heng beers, offering you the final one. You decline, feeling a bit apprehensive. “It’s really not that bad. These guys are biased, so don’t listen to them. You have to experience it for yourself.”

“I’ll pass, for now.” You give him a small reassuring smile. 

Stelle is sticking her tongue out at him before taking a bite of her perfect s’more. March has finally assembled her own, and before she can do anything but admire it, Sampo is swiftly stealing it from her, taking a generous bite.

“What the hell?!” She squeals, immediately standing up. Sampo shoves the rest of the treat in his mouth, smiling cheshirely as he slowly backs away. “Why would you do that?!! If you asked, I would’ve made you one!”

“It wouldn’t have been as good,” Sampo replies, words slurred through the food. 

“Seriously, fuck off, Sampo!” The twins exclaim in unison. 

You hear Serval laughing in the distance. A few other counselors watch in delight as March swats at Sampo, and he scurries off.

And just like that, the first counselor’s night of freedom begins.

An hour, maybe two, pass quickly. Serval has been strumming and singing for a while, and there’s a small group that’s collected around her, some feeding her drinks until her words blur together. Some counselors have resigned to the rec room; others have taken to running around the campus, playing and sneaking around carelessly. March had taken Stelle with her to the rec room to retrieve some games and returned with a vape.

Your small group had decided to resolve your boredom with chatter, which then evolved into an endless game of would you rather. 

March has nestled herself between your legs, blowing strawberry ice clouds carefully away from the fire. Your hands card through her candied strands, folding them neatly over one another into braids. 

Dan Heng sits beside you, a bit closer, nursing a second beer from Sampo’s stash. Sunday is still in place, still as quiet as a mouse, observing the main building more than enjoying the moment. Stelle is crushing another s’more, clapping her hands together.

“Okay! I have a good one!” She says, shoving the rest of the snack in her mouth. “Would you rather…”

The lights inside the main building have turned off. You don’t know what time it is, but it’s quite early. Ms Himeko has turned in earlier than you would have thought.

And you don’t know when it happened. Or when the door opened, and that guy from earlier came outside. He didn’t choose to sit on the chairs on the porch, but rather on the porch’s steps. He’s hidden just barely behind Stelle. And he poses indifference: a book is nestled between his fingers, but he doesn’t flip the pages. He doesn’t even look at it. He’s looking at you. And you don’t know how long it’s been happening.

Now that you’ve noticed it, you’re failing to look away. 

Even when March taps your knee, offering you a hit of the vape, and Stelle is singing your name annoyingly. You snap back to attention and accept the offer, letting a hand stagnate on top of March’s head.

“Why do you keep zoning out like that?” March asks.

“Right. You didn’t hear my question at all?”

You shake your head, taking a deep inhale of the vape. Stelle gives a dramatic sigh, “Dude, you’re seriously the worst.”

“That guy has been staring at me all night,” you say, slightly nodding your head in his direction. “Don’t make it obvious.” You add as Stelle, Caelus, and Sunday turn to look. You’re taking another hit, “Who even is that?”

After they look away, he’s burying himself in the book. You narrow your eyes a bit.

“That’s Blade,” Dan Heng answers, “I..actually don’t know his real name, now that I think about it.”

“Nobody does. That’s just what we call him.” Caelus shrugs.

“He’s one of the janitors,” March adds.

“We have janitors?” Sunday asks, finally breaking his silence. His confusion is loud, and immediately parroted by your expression. “Why in the world do we get put on cleaning duty, then?!”

Stelle shrugs, “He’s one of four. There was something about Mr Yang having to cut costs to afford some of the updates around campus. New therapists and security aren’t cheap.”

“I literally didn’t even know he existed until I caught him staring at me earlier. The fuck…” 

You run a bit cold. Something about it is making you uneasy—you feel naked in some ways, exposed. Who knows how long he’s been watching you, truly, or what he sees when he looks at you. 

It’s in your nature to think the worst. You shake your head, trying to physically dispel the thoughts. You might just be in your head too much. Maybe.

“Maybe he likes you~” March teases, tickling her fingers against your ankles.

You kick her in the side. “Shut up.”

“Seriously, he might,” Stelle adds. “I mean, I wouldn’t know. He’s not a man of many words. Maybe he’ll open up to you.”

“I hate you both,” you nip, rolling your eyes. “I am not talking to him. Never gonna happen.”

“Do you want me to?” Dan Heng asks you. And he’s speaking directly to you: his head is turned fully, his voice is soft, almost like it’s just for your ears. 

Your eyes flicker to behind Stelle again, to the empty front porch. That quickly, he’s disappeared. Again. Almost like he was never there to begin with. That coldness runs through you again.

Smiling at Dan Heng, you’re shaking your head again, resetting your mind. 

“Why do you guys call him Blade?” You ask. It comes out before you think about it, before you ask yourself why you even care.

The group all shrug. You take another hit in an attempt to truly clear your mind. It doesn’t really work.

“It’s kinda all he talks about, when he does speak. Think it’s something that just stuck,” Stelle answers. She makes grabby hands for the vape, and you oblige her: passing it to Caelus, who passes it to his sister.

“I think it has something to do with his job before this.” He adds.

The thought that immediately comes to your mind makes you laugh. “What was it? Blacksmithing?”

Nobody else really laughs. 

“I actually think it was,” Dan Heng answers. For the first time in a while, he sips his beer. “Or something like it.”

“I thought he was ex-military?” March asks, turning her head. Her half-done braid almost instantly unravels.

They all shrug again. “I said something like it,” Dan Heng replies, taking another sip. “I don’t know. I’ve, personally, never really talked to the guy.”

“You’re saying that like he talks to anyone,” Stelle says through the smoke.

“Who knows,” Caelus shrugs. He leans a little closer to the bonfire, warming his hands. “Maybe the other janitors know.”

“Who are they? Where are they?” You ask.

He pauses, then shrugs. “Who knows.” He repeats. 

Who knows. That seems to be the only thing resonating in your head.

—-----

On Saturdays, the counselors have the day off. Ms Himeko takes the therapists—Ms Yao, Ms Jade, Mr Anaxa, and Ms Aglaea—the campers, and Nurse Natasha into the city, showing them that there’s more to life than delinquency through community outreach activities. Mr Yang stays behind, still working like there’s no tomorrow. You all just rest up; Friday has drained you heavily. It’s a day that passes with slow monotony.

Jiaoqiu had a great spread ready for breakfast: assorted fruit skewers, pancakes, bacon, sausage, eggs, the whole ensemble. When you all had stumbled into the mess hall in droves, he greeted you with a grin.

You asked him, “Isn’t it technically your day off, too? Why’re you cooking for us?”

“It’s my pleasure,” he shrugged. “Food heals people. We could all use a little pick-me-up—we work with kids. Something has to keep us steady.”

He handed you an extra fruit skewer with a wink, and you accepted it politely. March and the others had grabbed a table by the front entrance, where the windows let the sun beam right in, and the doors held the angry heat at bay.

Breakfast was calm. You laughed, you talked. You swore out of the corner of your eyes that you’d seen Blade. Again, by the window, there one minute, and gone the next. It’s not strange for a janitor to linger around—it is his job. That’s what March told you. She’d also told you that sugar as a pancake topping is normal, so you don’t feel inclined to have faith in her.

The day carried on steadily. A few naps here and there made the time pass faster; the next thing you knew, Stelle was drawing on your face, waking you up with an incessant chorus of giggles. 

She held her hands up in defense as you launched at her. She dodged, and you tumbled onto the floor unceremoniously. March and Caelus couldn’t keep it together. The former was quick to snap pictures through her laughter. They were blurry from movement, but they captured your defeated pose, your noticing of March taking pictures, and your attempts to grab her.

They used eyeliner to decorate your face with a moustache, freckles, and horrid doodles. After three washes, your face was clean. Coming out of the bathroom, you ran into Dan Heng. He spooked you; he gave you an apologetic smile and a steadying hand on your bicep.

“We’re having a movie night at the amphitheatre. Mr Yang’s setting it up for us now…” he trailed off, like he was looking for the words to say. His eyes jumped all over your face. Then he inhaled and averted his gaze to his shoes. “I was wondering if you wanted to join me…”

The smile that pulled at your lips was uncontrollable and girlish. “Yeah, of course. …Are the others coming?”

“Yes, but I… I would like to get to know you..separate from the others.” His cheeks were flushing the softest pink, like newborn peonies. You tried to stifle your own fluster with a flattened smile, but you were unsuccessful. He exhaled deeply, possibly in relief, and continued, “I don’t think I’ve gotten to know you for you, yet. I think we would get along great.”

“I think we would, too.” Your smile was uncontainable. It was infectious; Dan Heng was grinning unabashedly. 

He’d taken you to the eastern amphitheatre. It’s further in the woods, at the back of the campus. The only other things back there are a row of sheds: two of them are used as makeshift classrooms, and the other three are filled with supplies. It’s a three-minute walk to the amphitheatre from the counselor’s cabins, but when you get back there, it feels like a different plane.

It’s placed a few feet from the cliff's edge, right at the end of the campus’ property. The seating is carved out in cement and lined with grass. Assorted blankets cover the verdant blades. Lanterns fill the space between the seats and the stage—the latter of which is adorned with a projector screen.

Heads have already started to populate the area. You spot March, the twins, and Sunday getting seated near the front right. You and Dan Heng sit a few rows back, shifted more toward the middle. 

Mr Yang had used a podium to hold the projector. He had tons of movies, he told you all, “Lots from my childhood. …Don’t make that face; they’re not in black and white. They’re quite good, if I may say so myself.”

You don’t remember the name of the first one, or any of the ones after that; you were too engrossed in conversation with Dan Heng. 

It was a quiet, whispery conversation that had you two pushed together. Lips to one another’s ear, cheek-to-cheek, arm-to-arm. It started slow, a bit hesitant, but soon, the layer of awkwardness melted between you, and you were close. You were smelling him again: the soft, soapy fragrance, the gentle, woody cologne, the twinge of sweat. He smelled like the woods: a familiar but distant scent, the smell of memories.

It carried on into your dreams. That night, you dreamed of Dan Heng being with you in a moonlit clearing in the middle of the woods. The sky was full of stars, and many of them were shooting across the night. Bright drag paths were shaped like the doodles Stelle had left on your face. He was pointing them out like they were constellations, with reverence like they were born of you. 

And then he held you, hands on your arms, with his eyes locked in on yours. He leaned closer to you, his breath against your lips. Lingering for a moment, letting you feel his warmth. And then he kissed you. You felt the stars in your mouth—the heat, the passion.

When he finally pulled away, his face was drained of color. His lips burst apart and a gurgle wracked from the back of his throat; blood poured from his mouth like an unbound spigot, dripping all over you. You shrieked bloodcurdlingly and you tried to slip away, but he was holding you down on the ground, pinning you tightly in his growing pool of blood. You blinked dramatically, and when you opened your eyes, he was Blade. 

On Sunday, you woke up on the floor. Skin dewy with sweat, your face especially wet with tears. 

You looked up, and March was still sound asleep. It was gloomy through the window.

Sundays are when Mr Yang finally comes out of the main building. The campers get the morning to rest in, and then they’re stuck in a lecture for two and a half hours. It allowed you to stay groggy until today.

Three cups of coffee and a secret vape break with March have given you enough gas to make it through your final group. Your session is focused on mindfulness and teaching the children regulation in conflict. After a short lesson comprised of notes from Ms Yao, you all have taken the children down to the lake. Rows of paddleboards, oars, and lifejackets await them. They burst into a chorus of excited yelling, all rushing to stake their claim. You, Tingyun, and March share knowing looks: disaster is upon you.

Tingyun whistles, silencing the bustle. “Listen up, everyone!” She chirped, “Group yourselves into groups of six, please. Miss March is going to secure your life vests, but don’t get distracted! Stay here, in this moment with me.”

March goes down the slight hill, taking to the first full group on the left. Their attention is amazingly still spared to you both.

“Alright guys; you’ll all be sharing your paddleboards among your group, using collaboration and effective communication to reach that goal back there,” Tingyun points straight over the water, where a floating green flag sits before the horizon. The camper's eyes follow, then fly right back when she snaps. “The first group to get there and back wins a wonderful free pass to the rec room instead of a group.” Now, the children are excited. You and Tingyun share another glance.

“However! You must exhibit good sportsmanship and collaboration with your team,” you add. “The pass also expires at the end of this week. Choose wisely…”

March has made her way through the group—four pods of six—and she jumps excitedly into the air. You and Tingyun move, taking downhill and unhooking sets of oars for each group.

“Are you guys ready?!” March exclaims. Each member of the groups is handed an oar. The paddleboards are already laid at the foot of the water. March directs the kids to them. “Remember: your goal is to have fun and compassion!”

“And to win!” You add. March sends you a playful glare.

“Yes, but know that the real winners in life are the people who can make peace with loss,” Tingyun says. Her words sit on your chest. “So, no matter the results, don’t beat yourself up, and don’t persecute others.”

The kids line up on the paddleboards. They buzz with excitement. You, March, and Tingyun crouch behind the first three groups, pushing them fully into the water. March moves quickly to the fourth, matching them to their peers.

You pull the stopwatch out of your pocket. 

“Okay; on your marks!” Tingyun leads, “Get ready…”

“Get set…” March picks up.

“Go!!” You exclaim, hitting the start button.

The children start rowing uncoordinatedly. They’re all focusing on being the fastest, on getting ahead, that they’re negating communication and strategy. It’s funny to watch. They wobble on the boards, even as they hardly take off anywhere. The natural current pulls them forward more than their efforts do.

March facepalms. “I think they’re missing the essence of the activity…”

“Let them have their fun,” you reply, looking at them with a heap of fondness. “They’ll find their way sooner or later.”

“As long as they’re not mean to each other or fighting, we have a win on our hands, ladies.” Tingyun sends you both a grin. 

Suddenly, a loud splash is heard. A chorus of laughter and teasing snides ring out; the second group has flipped their board over. Little legs stick up out of the water. Their hands flail as they try to get back up.

Group three is in the lead. They seem to have found harmony. Your grin is proud and uncontainable.

“You got this, you guys!” You yell out. 

“Aw, look at you, encouraging them,” March teases, elbowing you in your side. “It was just four days ago that you barely wanted to talk to them.”

You roll your eyes, shoving her lightly. “They’ve softened me up a little. What can I say?”

“Was it them, or a special someone…?” Tingyun raises her eyebrows at you. Your lips roll inward and you look back out into the lake. Group three has made it to the flag, with group one close behind them. Two is still struggling to stay steady and afloat, and four is making slow progress.

“Don’t avoid the question!” March jumps in your face.

You take a step back from her, crossing your arms and avoiding her face. You won’t be able to keep it together if you look at her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bullshit!”

“We saw you and Dan Heng at movie night. You guys looked quite close…”

“Yeah! And he kicked the twins and me out so he could personally invite you.” March says, wiggling a finger in your face. “You both get all cheesy and flustered when you see each other. What’s up with that??”

You shrug, “Nothing. We’re just friends—I barely even know him!”

“Yeah, but you want to get to know him more, don’t you?” Tingyun’s voice is teasingly sultry. March is giggling. You’re fighting the urge to feed into her.

“I bet you want to know what he feels like, what he sounds like, what he tastes—”

“Oh my god! There are kids around!”

“Is that why you won’t make a move? You don’t want to corrupt them?”

“I’m trying to be professional.” You defend, finally looking March in the eyes. You know your expression is unconvincing by the way she’s trying not to laugh in your face. “We have jobs to do.”

“This is a summer camp. Having fun is literally in the job description.” Tingyun argues.

“I’m not having this conversation right now.”

“So later? During dinner?” The brunette asks. 

You give her a tempered glare. “I’m off duty after this, so no.”

“So we’ll talk about it before lights out then! It’s decided!” March chirps. She gives you a wink. “Listen, I think you should give him a chance. Dannie’s a good guy. And he clearly is interested in you, so…”

Your brows involuntarily quirk at that. March and Tingyun catch it and immediately burst into laughter; you hide your face in your palms.

There’s another large splash of water. The three of you immediately whip your attention to the water. Miraculously, group two has made it to shore.

Group three has toppled over on their way back. Group one and four are neck-and-neck for second place.

“Oh! Oh! I got it!” You hit the lap button. “A minute and fifty-four seconds! Good job, guys!!”

March and Tingyun rush to greet them with high-fives. You’re still watching the water: by a hair, group one beats group four. You hit the lap button again. In their second of triumph, they tip over and dump into the water, splashing their peers and your friends. You start bellowing out laughter. 

The fourth group has made it onto land safely. You lap it again. 

As the kids start to ramble about the experience to March and Tingyun, stripping their gear, you watch the final group struggle to make it. By the time they hit the shore, their little legs have given out and they’re doubling over, sliding into the wet mud.

Immediately, the self-appointed leader of the group, Yunli, jumps up, pointing an accusatory finger at another kid, Yanqing. Since day one, these two have been going at it. They’re a strange case of frenemies.

“This is all your fault! Your strategy sucked—now, we’re big fat losers!!” She stands over Yanqing.

You instantly rush over.

“Our failure was a group effort!” Yanqing argues back. “Don’t just blame me!”

“Why should I listen to you?! You weren’t right the first time, so what makes it different this time?!”

“Stop trying to fight me, Yunli—”

“Or what?”

“Okay, okay, none of that, guys.” You approach with your hands defensively flexed, your tone soft. Yunli has no problem with demanding respect and you have no desire to fight her bite. “Remember what we talked about before? Processing the emotion inside before letting it out? It’s okay to be disappointed, but it’s not okay to project that onto others.”

“Don’t talk down to me like I’m a little kid!”

“You are a kid, stupid!” Yanqing quips. He pulls himself up, and Yunli takes the opportunity to get in his face. 

“If I’m stupid, what are you?” She asks, her chest puffed out.

“No, guys—”

“Better than you! I could never be as stupid as you. Yunli the Dummy—Yunli the big, mad, ugly dummy!”

“Yanqing—”

“Shut up!” Yunli shoves Yanqing; he stumbles backwards, impressively staying afoot in the mud. But that steadiness leads him to stomp right back, and you futily try to keep him at bay.

You look over your shoulder for a brief second, looking for support, and find March consoling a sobbing sore loser, and Tingyun helping a kid stuck in their lifejacket. It would be you, the least experienced of your trio, to have to deal with a quickly escalating conflict.

If you had it your way, you’d let them fight. When you were a camper, you hated when the counselors would get involved and break up your fights—sometimes it’s necessary to enact revenge and let it all out, lest it festers and you have to repeat the conflict again and again and again. But you’re getting paid to be a referee, so you have to intervene before it gets out of hand. 

You wedge yourself between the bickering children. They’re slinging insults back and forth and your protests and reminders fall on deaf ears. The best you can do is keep them from knocking each other out, which isn’t that great.

The ground is soft and wet, and Yunli is trying her hardest to break past you and choke Yanqing out. She’s strong—unnecessarily so for a young girl. 

Yanqing swats at her under your defensive arms, and she instantly reacts, lunging forward with a deep heave. Her sheer power is that of a bull: she’s ignited and blows right through you, sending you unceremoniously to the ground. You make a hard splat into the mud before slowly sliding toward the water. 

Everyone stops and looks at you, hissing and wincing at your fall. You’re hot with embarrassment.

You try to pull yourself up but you keep slipping in the mud, falling further and further down with each attempt. Yunli snickers at you; Yanqing joins in. At least you got them to stop fighting…

Tingyun and March finally see your struggle and rush over, and all twenty-four campers watch them pull you up, muddied and sopping, in a humiliating silence.

DING DING, DONG DONG. 

The intercom crackles. “Good evening, Paradise Valley. It’s 6:20 PM; Counselors, please wrap up your groups and escort the campers to the dining hall. Dinner will begin usually and promptly at 6:30. Tonight’s menu is garlic shrimp and broccoli skewers, meatballs, fried rice, and assorted vegetables, and cucumber noodle salad. Eat well, and fuel up for another great day!”

You, March, and Tingyun share looks as the children cheer and clap.

“What in the world happened over here?” Tingyun questions.

You narrow your gaze at Yunli and Yanqing. “Those two,” you say, nodding your head at them. “Bickering and fighting. I’m no snitch, but they got me covered in mud and worms and shit, so I’m writing their little asses up. No Friday night bonfire for them!”

March laughs; Tingyun scoffs, “Now, being vindictive is no way to deal with your frustration.”

“Oh, shut the hell up.”

—----- 

The mud is stubborn to rinse off your skin. Waves of light brown water crash in the tub, slowly pouring down the drain. Sediment has begun to ring itself around. You just stand under the water, rubbing your hands along your skin, trying to clear yourself before a rag touches you. 

The water is a nice lukewarm: warm enough to make you feel clean, cool enough to mend hours under the scorching sun. It feels good to just let it rain against you. You’ve found yourself just relishing the feeling lately—the caress of it, the cleanliness it tows. 

You turn around to let the water run down your back. It’s relatively clean, but it suffered most of the sun’s ire. You gasp softly when it catches the rain. It’s almost a moan. It’s pleasurable.

Your eyes flutter shut as you stand there. The water pressure isn’t the best, but it hugs you well. 

Fatigue is beginning to overcome you. It doesn’t help that you didn’t turn the lights on, deciding to let the sinking sun illuminate the bathroom. 

It’s a dim orange in the room. The shower curtain keeps the light at bay considerably; just bright enough so you can see yourself and the small tub, and the fuzzy outline on the other side.

The shadow catches your attention at the corner of your eye. The slight presence you feel, the goosebumps that push against your flesh, are unexpected. You’re fraught to acknowledge it and you don’t understand why. It’s something buried deep inside you keeping you from giving in—

But you do. You turn and look and there’s a figure on the other side of the shower curtain. Seemingly frozen in motion. You can’t tell if they’re facing the shower or not.

“March,” you call out over the water, “I didn’t tell you you could come in! Stop barging in without knocking!”

You’re not sure if it's her, but it feels better to believe it is. 

There’s no response. 

March lingers for a moment before wordlessly leaving. You breathe again when you’re alone. 

In a slow few minutes, filled with your soft humming to invigorate the dead air, you’re clean and exiting the shower. The bathroom smells like your soap. Condensation hangs in the air and sits on the mirror. You wipe it away to gaze at yourself in the streaks, to see how clean you look, how nice you appear. You never thought that there’d be a time you negated freedom and expression to be normal—that you’d become the daughter your father always wanted.

You flatten your lips as the realization settles into you. He’s not even here to see it, and yet, it’s all for him. 

You turn and bend to grab your muddy clothes off the floor but pause in your tracks. The marks where they laid are still there, but they themselves are missing.

“What the fuck?” You mutter aloud. You remember stripping in the bathroom and hopping right in—you were going to rinse them off before going to the machine, so they should be right here, beside the toilet. 

But they’re not. You can only think of one answer:

“March!” You yell out, throwing the bathroom door open. “Did you take my clothes out of the bathroom?! Why did you…”

The cabin is empty. It looks as it did when you came in: March’s bunk is a hot mess of clothes, wrinkled sheets, and plushies, and yours is unmade but somewhat orderly. The windows are cracked. The fan is carrying air across the room. The door is closed. 

Your voice dies in your throat. Your body vibrates under a gust of chills down your back. Suddenly, you’re clutching the towel tighter to your body.

And then, the door is swinging open, with March singing your name. “You’ll never believe—oh, hey. Were you waiting for me?”

She’s holding a white clamshell plate in one hand, the doorknob in the other. Her cheery disposition melts into concern as she examines your demeanor. Quickly, she’s closing the door behind her, coming closer. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Were you in here? Did you come in the bathroom?” 

“No, I just came back from—” She cuts herself off, setting the food container on the dresser. Your eyes flicker to the dresser; a bunch of flowers are laid atop, crunched petals brushed around. You wonder where that came from… She comes even closer to you. “Did something happen?”

You don’t know why you hesitate to tell her. March is silly; she’s been joking and pranking you since you met her a week ago, but this isn’t her style. It unnerves you to admit that.

You shake your head, “It’s been a long day… Think ‘m just driving myself crazy.”

You sit down on your bed. She pushes stuff out of her way and sits on hers across from you.

“Was it the shower snakes?”

You shake your head again. “A person…I think.”

“A person?! What the fuck?!” She exclaims. “We need to go tell Ms Himeko right—”

“I said I think it was a person. All I saw was a shadow… And then, when I got out of the shower, my clothes were missing. But maybe I misplaced them, or—”

“No fucking way. Where could they have gone?” March asks, looking around the room theatrically.

You give her a humorless laugh. She’s right, unfortunately. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t think I want to know.” 

“Well, I think we should tell Ms Himeko and Mr Yang.” She shrugs. “They can pull up the security tapes and find out who came in and out of the cabin, if anybody.”

“No way. Then everybody’ll see me sneaking around with Dan Heng after lights out.” You joke. 

March gives you a dry, enunciated laugh. Then, she claps her hands together, “Oh, wait! Speaking of Dan Heng…”

—----- 

Camp ends in three weeks. You’ve made it halfway through, and you haven’t lost your sense or your patience, so you reward yourself on the eve of the beginning of week four with Sampo’s special juice.

Mr Yang confiscated the keg, so Sampo and Luka stole a few pitchers from the dining hall and made it work. They also took Mr Yang’s Jeep and drove into town to buy some more liquor. They’ll have to clean the pitchers a dozen times over with how much alcohol is in there—one cup of lemonade from those things and the campers will be drunk beyond repair. 

This Saturday called for the rowdiness: you’d all made it through the week without having to write up any campers. Even Yunli and Yanqing, whose ugly spat last week left them facing punishment for days, had managed to make it through the week on good behavior. And Ms Himeko had secured an overnight excursion to celebrate the kids’ efforts, so you were all left to your devices. Mr Yang catches up on some much-needed sleep, and you all indulge in the fledgling night.

Your group has sat around the bonfire once again; this time, much closer, because a few other counselors have squeezed in among you. It’s a colder night: the breeze is much more aggressive and keeps the temperature tolerable, the flame tempered. Most of the kindling was used yesterday for the kids, and you’re all much too gone to feed it. Nobody’s here for the fire, anyway—it’s all about letting loose.

Your lips are stained purple. So are March’s, and Caelus’s, and nearly everyone's. Dan Heng and Sunday stay sober, and the latter is not pleased about his predicament.

He huffs, adjusting March’s dead weight onto Stelle’s shoulder. “I thought the whole point of Paradise After Dark is that we’re off the clock…so, why do I have to babysit you all?”

“Y’don’t,” March slurs, “Nobody's making you be a prude, Sunny!”

“‘M not a prude…” he mutters in reply, his lips pursed in a defiant pout. He crosses his arms over each other and turns away from March, who’s pressing teasing fingers to his cheek.

“You might not be a prude, but you are wound up quite tight,” Caelus adds with a shrug, taking the final swig of his drink. 

A few agreeing murmurs resound within the group. Sunday takes to sulking a bit more.

Dan Heng gives Sunday an encouraging pat on the shoulder, “It doesn’t hurt to wind down a little bit. …I’m actually going to grab a beer; want one?”

Sunday receives Dan Heng’s kindness with a flattened smile. “I guess. …Sure. Thanks.”

“No problem.” Dan Heng stands up. He turns to face the group, “I’ll be right back. Anybody need anything?”

A chorus of unintelligible requests comes his way; he only gives a small smile, one that says he’ll figure it out. He takes one step out of the circle and stops because you grab his wrist.

“Can I come with you?” You ask quietly. Then, you start to feel embarrassed because of how meek you must look and sound, how desperate. You clear your throat and straighten your posture. “...I wanna sober up a little, that’s all. Think ‘m gonna call it a night soon…”

“Of course. I don’t mind.” He smiles reassuringly at you. He pulls his hand from your grip, moving to hold yours and help you to your feet. 

A few adoring coos are passed around the group. You try to tell yourself that it’s the fire warming you so aggressively, but you know it’s him. Everyone knows it’s him; you two are not subtle in the slightest. 

You rise, holding Dan Heng a little tighter because your legs feel weak. Akin to a jellying—like your legs are made out of cotton candy. Your head spins, your vision blurs. The effects of the drink hadn’t hit you as hard as it’d gotten March or Tingyun. The latter is splayed across the steps of the main building, fast asleep, with Topaz checking her pulse regularly. It’s only now, that you’re on your feet, that you can feel the way the world turns. You can feel where the sun sits veiled under the night, to your left, and where the moon mingles with the stars, to your right.

He keeps you steady. His hands hold your arms; he doesn’t wince when your nails dig in your skin. And he keeps you safe. His left arm cups your back, because your wobbling comes dangerously close to knocking you into the fire. For a second, you feel like you’re on a different plane with him. It’s just you, Dan Heng, and the calm woods—the whisper of the woods. They hold a secret that’s ablaze under his touch, atop your flesh, yet so deep inside of you. 

You look in his eyes and you’re back in reality. 

“Why’d you stop?! It was getting good—I thought you guys were going to kiss!” Stelle exclaims. All fire in your chest withers away in an instant.

“Yeah!” March coincides, her voice a pitchy whine. “I dare you guys to kiss. Double dog dare you!”

You and Dan Heng laugh in disbelief at her. It’s like the drink has cooked her brains away.

“We’re not playing truth or dare, March,” Evanescia says, a kitten-like hiccup in tow.

March frowns, whining like a petulant child. She lays her head on Stelle’s shoulder, and the silvered girl cradles her face. March begins to tear up. “Can we play truth or dare? Please guys?”

“Sure, March, we can play truth or dare.” Caelus obliges her, doing a horrible job of keeping his laughter at bay.

Her teariness instantly switches off and she’s shrieking in glee, clapping her hands together. “Yay!” She exclaims, sitting upright. “Dan Heng, truth or dare?”

He looks around the whole group. Everyone’s trying not to laugh. When he gets to you, he can’t keep it in, and neither can you. He wipes his face, shaking his head. “Truth.”

“Ugh, you always pick truth! Pick dare!”

“...Okay. Dare, then.”

“I dare you two to kiss~” March says, a drunken laugh bubbling out of her uncontrollably. She waves an unsteady finger between you and him. You can’t say you’re surprised. “No skating out of this one, either. I wanna see some tongue—”

“Okay, okay! Good lord,” you laugh, embarrassed. Your hands are cupping your cheeks and you run them down your face in mortification. And then you look at Dan Heng, and your gall drops to your ass. You spare March a look, “Do we have to do it… right here?”

She nods, and then shrugs. “I understand if you want your privacy…here;” March stands up on uneasy legs, completely steadied by Stelle and Sunday. She fishes in her front pocket for a moment before pulling out a tube of her signature bubblegum pink lipgloss. She tosses it over the fire to you with a grin. “Put that on. When y’guys come back, Dannie should be wearing it.”

You cringe at her lack of subtlety, but Dan Heng seems to be humored by her. Or endeared—they all seem to be great friends.

“Can we go now?” He asks her, with a faux layer of exasperation.

March nods rapidly, her hands flapping in dismissal. They’re like the wings of a monarch. As soon as you two step out of the circle and take three steps forward into the darkness, the entire mood changes. Like an equivocal reality welcomes you.

As you walk to the dining hall in tandem, in a comfortable quiet, your mind drifts to last week: March had told you that Dan Heng was looking for you during dinner service, and that he’d saved you a seat and a fruit cup. He noticed how you were always wanting one, trading for them with campers and counselors alike. And she told you that when he’d heard about your muddy fall, he wasn’t laughing. He just wanted to know if you were okay, if you needed anything.

You just begin to think about how much he evidently thinks about you, and how he’s always looking out for you. He’s always trying to help you, even by just being there.

He’s the kind of guy you used to dream about: the prince charming, coming to whisk you away from everything wrong in your life. The kind of guy you wished your dad was. The kind of guy who sees you, just as you are, and likes you anyway.

You don’t notice you’re crying until you get to the dining hall. The lights on the front of the chalet are motion-sensored—a security detail that’s supposed to protect the campers more than watch you. When the lights flash on your faces, Dan Heng spares you a look- and then another, because your face is streaked with tears.

He takes his hand off the door. “Are you alright?” He asks, concern dominant in his voice. “Did March make you unco—”

“No, I don’t- I don’t know why I’m crying.” You cut him off, with a fervent shake of your head and an aggressive wipe of your hot cheeks. “I just got reminded of some things, that’s all. I’m okay, though, really.”

He’s not convinced. His eyebrows are furrowed softly. He pulls the ajar door open and the two of you step into the desolate dining hall. The robustness of it is so heightened at night; it looks stagnant in time, with the wood walls, the antler chandelier, and rotted picnic tables. It’s so dark and quiet, too; you could hear spiders weaving their webs. 

The beer stash is in the kitchen, in an old cooler beside the pantry. But Dan Heng doesn’t go that way; he doesn’t go anywhere. He stops in his tracks and looks down at you. His eyes are golden again, but not by fire. Maybe he just radiates gilded light—maybe it surges when he looks at you. “Do you want to talk about it?” He asks, his tone calm and his voice quiet.

You purse your lips, looking away from him. You don’t reply instantly. You walk ahead slightly, picking a random seat on one of the creaky bench seats. It grumbles under your weight.

You exhale deeply, “I don’t know why; I just started thinking about growing up. What it was like with my dad, what it was like coming here.” He takes a seat beside you. Your legs are brushing against each other. You subconsciously lean into him. “He used to get so mad at me. He was so disappointed that I was fighting, but he never cared why. I was defending myself mostly—I mean, yeah, I was talking shit, but I never said anything about anyone who wasn’t mean to me first. I had to stick up for myself constantly, but no one ever listened until I used my fists.”

Your eyes are glued to your hands, which are glued to your lap. You ball them and flex them, ball them and flex them; when your eyes flutter to blink, you can see all of your fights flash in your head. All of the trouble that seemed to chase you with an insatiable appetite. You couldn’t outrun it, so you just gave up and let it take you.

“He started sending me here, ‘cause he was embarrassed of me, ‘n he wanted to fix me,” your words are starting to blend. Tears are starting to wrap around your throat—you didn’t know it still affected you like this. “An’ you age outta here at seventeen. I was comin’ here every year for seven years ‘n nothin’ changed. I’d only gotten worse. …I think a part of it was that I needy– I needed my dad to just accept ‘n help me. But he hated me—”

“He didn’t hate you.” Dan Heng interjects.

You shake your head. “He told me he couldn’t love me–” You’re getting choked up. Your nails are pressing into your palms. There you go again, trying to defy the odds. “‘There’re other ways to show people that you’re better and stronger than them. Violence, muddying your name with trouble, is not the way.’ That’s what he told me. He told me he couldn’t love me, ‘cause I didn’t have enough respect for m’self an’ him to conduct with class.”

Dan Heng scoots closer, hesitant to hold you and give you comfort. But you lean into him; you wordlessly give him permission to melt the world away with his touch. He wordlessly obliges you, and the whole world crumbles away.

Quakes wrack through you as you slowly crescendo into a sob. Alcohol always makes you emotional. But you’ve never said those things aloud—you’ve never let someone see you. Until Dan Heng.

He’s different. He’s like the calm after the storm, the freshness of a new day. Something about him, something you’ve been trying to pinpoint since you first met him, is magnetic and fantastical. He feels almost unreal, like a true prince cut out of a fairytale and pasted into real life.

His arms feel like warm clouds around your skin and his heartbeat sounds like the thunder within them. You nestle into him closer, to adopt his weightlessness and fly away with him.

The calm after the storm; your tears have slowed to a trickle, your voice has tempered to a whisper. Your hands have found their way to his shirt, bunching the fabric in your fist, as though you’d let him go and plummet to Hell. 

“After graduation, I moved out ‘n went no contact. Haven’t heard of or seen my dad in years. I dunno if he’d be proud of me—I guess a part of me wishes he would be. That’d he see who I am, who I always was,” you sniffle. Your voice is so little, so rocky with trembles. But you continue. The weight on your chest is whittled to nothing. There’s a sense of relief beneath all the humiliation. “I guess that’s why I’m so scared to do anything. I like you a lot and I don’t want to scare you off- I don’t want you to see anything you won’t like. He’ll be right and I’ll be unloveable and there’ll be nothing left for me—I’ll have to fight tooth and nail to see tomorrow again. And I don’t want to, I never did. I just want peace. …I just want you.”

A thick silence washes over the room. But it’s not uncomfortable, it’s not cursory. It’s filled with Dan Heng’s breaths, with yours, with your realization and vindication all wrapped in one.

You start to laugh at yourself, sniffling. “...I would’ve never said any of this if I didn’t have Sampo’s drink from Hell.”

“Drunk words are sober thoughts.” Is all he says. His voice sounds lower, a little more invigorated.

The two of you laugh lightly. 

You sit yourself up, still leaned close. You and Dan Heng both scan each other’s faces; both of your gazes land in the same place. First, the lips, then, the eyes. You’re both thinking the same thing.

His hands have somehow found their way to your waist; yours have lost their purchase on his shirt and slid down to his lap. His eyes crinkle softly as he gives you a slight smile. “Is it appropriate to—”

You shut him up with a kiss. Much softer than you’ve ever kissed a guy before. You must really like him.

He melts into the kiss instantly. His touch hardens, then softens, then travels up your body. His right hand cups your face and you lean into him. Doing so lets your faces slot naturally- your lips are at the most opportune angle to be separated and invaded with a careful, tentative tongue.

Your fingers scratch at his thighs. Then, they’re flattening as you press forward, wanting to completely sink into his body. What was once tender has now erupted into a hungry wave of passion, and if you had no shame, you’d undress him right here, right now.

Dan Heng licks your bottom lip as he pulls away; his eyes flutter as they fight to open. But when they do, they immediately soften at you. He’s breathless, but he’d still give you more.

You laugh softly when you see him again. His lips have picked up a faint layer of Sampo’s purple concoction. You brush your fingers against his plump lips. “You’ve got my color,” you say, a tender lilt to your voice.

He gives you an almost sheepish grin with a shrug. “There’s the proof for March.” He says, and you double over into him, laughing. He caresses your back lightly. “Speaking of, we should probably head back soon,” and then you’re letting him stand up, but he lets his hand linger in your hold. “I’ll go grab the beers, and then we can go. Want anything?”

“I’m good,” you nod, “thanks f’r caring.”

“It’s hard not to.”

You can’t remember a time you’ve felt so girlish and giddy. You have to stop yourself from kicking your feet when he walks into the kitchen. You just rock in your seat, swaying your head left and right, right and left.

It’s so quiet in the dining hall, even with Dan Heng rummaging around glass bottles. You hear it: the crunching, the rustling, the decrescendoing of a presence. Your head immediately snaps to your right, toward the line of windows—you can see the trees and shrubs bristling, like they’re swallowing a secret.

An equivocal reality, breathing down your neck, inching closer to you. It’s in the woods, that truth, and it sets the hairs on your body on end. What or whoever it may be is still watching you; you feel the attention on your skin and in your nerves.

The calm after the storm; when Dan Heng returns, you forget for a moment, you slip into this sweet fantasy. He has a fruit cup for you, a proud grin alongside it. 

The feeling from outside is gone, or you’ve just forgone it. You turn your back to it again.

Never turn your back on nature; you never know what’s going to make an example out of you.

—----- 

A heatwave has hit the area again. It’s the same sweltering heat; the shade offers no reprieve. You can physically feel the air around you and feel it entering your body. 

Promptly at six AM, Ms Himeko had walkie’d the staff to make their way to the main building. Upon groggy arrival, the fiery woman greeted you all warmly. She pulled her black robe tighter over her cleavage, crossing her legs, “The weather is absolutely ridiculous today,” she began, a directing hand leading you all to the TV behind her. The weather report was casted and it was all a deep red. Dozens of warnings splayed across the screen to stay hydrated, keep inside if you can, and avoid excessive exercise. “It’d be irresponsible to make the children do the activities like this. But, we also cannot negate our duties to helping them grow.”

“Do you have an alternative?” Ms Yao asked, shifting her weight on her feet.

“There’s not much we can make happen in such a short time,” Ms Himeko clicked her tongue. “We’ve already had to tweak the menu…an oven or a stove might be fatal.”

“Couldn’t we use the paintball guns again, and just fill them with water this time?” Luka asked. His tone was much too chipper for the crack of dawn.

Mr Anaxa shook his head with a sigh, “We have 260 kids. There’s not enough of us or equipment to go around.” He rolled his eyes when Luka deflated, “There’s nothing wrong with giving a lecture. They get to sit still and cool and still receive the lesson; they just don’t get to have any fun with it.”

“That’s cruel!” March protested, “They only make as much progress as they do because of the activities!”

“In the real world with real triggers, they aren’t going to have waterballoons and kayaks to help them address conflict.” Mr Anaxa argued back.

The room soon quickly became filled with unintelligible bickering. Everyone was going back and forth about the next and best course of action, but nobody could agree. Time was ticking; the children would be getting up soon and breakfast needed to be prepared.

A gavel-like banging silenced the room. At the head of the darkened corridor stood Mr Yang, his face lined with insomnia and stress. His hair was a disheveled mess, and his robe was haphazardly strung over his body, held together by a tight grip. He tapped his cane on the ground again, this time softer, as he cleared his throat. “This is no way to solve an issue, everyone,” and his eyes scanned the crowd. It felt like being in trouble with your dad. The same sinking feeling pooled in your gut. “I overheard some interesting ideas. I think water games are a given. We’ll bring out everything we have and just make it work—”

“We can do stations,” you blurted out. Mr Yang’s head cocked slightly. “Oh- sorry. I didn’t mean to cut you off.”

“No, no. It was a fine addition,” He reassured you, a soft smile and nod in tow. “If you all can handle all 260 children—which, I’m positive you can—we can make this happen. If it goes without a hitch…” he trailed off, giving Ms Himeko a glance. She gave him a nod, and his smile grew. “We’ll reward you all with time at the lake.”

Cheers and glee polluted the room. Mr Yang had to bang his cane against the ground to silence you all again. 

“Mind yourselves out there, tonight. Tomorrow is Monday, so don’t go too crazy.” Ms Himeko warned. Her gaze lingered on Sampo, then moved to the twins and March. She gave them all a quirk of her brow. “We won’t be monitoring you—we will be indulging ourselves on frozen margaritas. After lights out for the campers, the main building is closed.”

And so, after another fifteen minutes of planning the day and allocating duties, you all had gotten to work. The therapists stayed behind to tweak their lessons for the day; the kitchen staff had taken off to prepare, and the counselors had set off to storage and the recreation room, pulling out tarps and buckets and balloons and so much shit, dolley’s had to be trudged around.

That was the first time you’d seen Blade again in weeks. After spotting him at the bonfire, you hadn’t seen him around like you thought you would. He vanished into thin air, but appeared again when you and the twins had loaded up a wagon with paintball and water guns and cones. The thing was ridiculously heavy, so Caelus pushed it while you and Stelle pulled. It was an awkward shuffle out of the storage shed, but it became easier when the door was held wide open for you to back out. There was a smoky smell that’d caught your nose, a musk. You traced it back up to Blade, dressed in all black, holding the door open. He was already looking at you when you met his eyes. You swallowed and dropped your gaze.

You could feel Stelle’s eyes on you.

And then he spoke. “You guys should be more careful,” he said. It was the first time you’d heard him speak—his voice sent chills down your body. It was in your bones, like the roar of a tiger, deep and resounding. There was a softness to it, a quietness, that subdued the edge and gruffness. “The latch was down. You could’ve gotten locked in.”

He spoke so matter-of-factly, so coldly. You were scared to respond, so you just nodded. The twins followed your lead.

“Thanks, Blade,” Stelle chirped. She stagnated to smile at him and hold a hand out for him to shake. He slowly took to it. “...That..is your name, right?”

“It is what I am called, yes.”

Stelle quirked her head. “Is there a reason for it?”

It was only then that his expression moved. It was just a wrinkle that ran down his face, like he was fighting something inside of him. And then he pulled his hand away from Stelle and turned on his heels. “My past,” is all he said, even lower than his previous words.

And then he walked off, in the wrong direction. Instead of taking the path back to the camp, he went right and walked to the woods. The sun was just barely rising; it’d have been impossible to see. 

You and the twins stayed quiet for a moment, trying to digest the haunting feeling that slunk over you. You shared glances. Stelle held her wrist, holding her hand up to the two of you. 

“Dude. His hand was like, so cold. Like, deadass freezing.” Then, she shuddered, sparing another look over her shoulder. “Where did he even come from? That was so—”

“That was creepy as fuck,” you whispered. You were looking at the woods again. It didn’t feel like the three of you were alone. “Let’s go and set this stuff up before I piss myself.”

Just in time for Himeko’s morning announcement, you all had finished setting up twelve stations for an exhausting day of water play. The sprinklers were on, and there was water running continuously over the makeshift slides. Inflatable pools were full of lake water, water balloons, rainbow golf balls, and tree debris. Sweat stains covered everyone’s uniforms already, but the kids were excited to see what was going on as they ran to the dining hall.

The lessons were geared toward effective communication and collaboration again, using the games as conduits. Ms Jade and Mr Anaxa led the first lesson, and then you counselors took the kids over to their stations. Making it work with 260 eager children was an arduous task. Your throat was so dry from all the yelling and chasing them down, and every part of your body was sweaty. The first few hours were spawned from Hell. 

Lunch break was spent in the shower in ice cold water, rinsing the sweat off your skin. It was then you thought of Blade again.

Stelle said he was cold… You became hyper aware of the cold droplets on your skin, how they felt pattering against you and running over you. You wondered if his infatuation would lead to his touch on your skin, if he wanted it to. 

You didn’t want him to—you’d seen him up close, and as beautiful as he was, he was haunting. There was something living under his skin, something that looked you in the eyes and dared to devour you then and there. You thought about the woods again. Why’d he gone to them?

The day couldn’t end fast enough. A part of you hoped you’d find some answers come nightfall.

After lights out for the campers, the main building is closed.

As you all walked to the lake, you saw the lights go out and heard the faint sound of glasses clinking. You could totally go for a frozen margarita, but the remnants of Sampo’s stash would have to suffice.

You didn’t pack a swimsuit, so March let you borrow one of hers. It was quite small on you. Suddenly, you were cold, and goosebumps decorated your skin. 

March gave you a playful smack on the butt. “Oh, you put me to shame in that!” She grinned. “Dan Heng is going to lose his mind!”

He keeps it quite demure when he sees you. He and Sunday had already made it down to the lake; a lot of the counselors did. Some were already in the water, some were dancing around the edge. He waves you guys over, already scooting to make room for you to sit.

“You look nice…” he compliments, his eyes pulling over your visage. There’s almost stars reflected across his deep blues. His face is flushed a hungry pink. “I like your bathing suit. It’s pretty on you.”

“Thank you,” you give him a sheepish grin. “I’m borrowing it from March. …I like your trunks. The green looks good on you.”

“Thanks.” 

Your hands are barely touching. Your fingers crawl to each other, to dance with one another amid the grass. 

“God, you guys make me sick!” Stelle yells from behind you, approaching with her brother. 

He’s making retching noises, holding his stomach dramatically. “So gross! Take your PDA somewhere else!”

You flick the pair off, laughing. 

March boos them, “You guys are haters! They’re cute!”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Caelus says, waving you off. He plops down beside March, pushing her shoulder before pulling her back in, his arm wrapped around her neck. “I’ve seen enough of their googly-eyes and drooling for one lifetime.”

“Jealousy’s not a great look on you,” Sunday interjects, looking directly at Caelus.

“I’m not jealous!”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, really! I—”

“Aht aht aht! Good vibes only at the lake,” Sampo comes out of nowhere, carrying beers for each of you. He’s always trying to find his way around you all. “Might I interest you in some ice cold brew to get the positivity going?”

Sunday gives the tall man a laugh. “What is this? A sales pitch?”

“I’m not paying you a dime,” Stelle adds in, shrugging. She fishes a vape out of her top, shaking it for Sampo to see. He deflates childishly.

You reach your arm out to him, “I’ll take one. …As long as it’s free.”

Sampo leans down with a cheshire grin, letting you pluck a beer from his hand with an icy clink. “Of course! Friends get discounts.” He gives Stelle a side-eye with his words, and she replies with a middle finger and puff of her vape.

It’s a twist-off cap, but Dan Heng still offers to open it for you. His kindness and fondness for you never fails to make you gush. You pass him the bottle and he twists it with ease, tucking the top in his pocket.

“Hey, Sampo,” March calls to him. “Do you think everyone’d wanna play a game?”

“What kind of game?”

“Hmm…how about… hide and seek?”

You wound up the unlucky fool to be the hider. It was decided by a contest: the person who could hold their breath underwater the shortest time would be the hider. Unfortunately, it was you, but only by a hair.

They give you three minutes to hide. The unfair advantage of the twenty-nine of them searching for you called for a lengthy hiding time. They turn their backs and promise not to peek; you turn to them and put your eyes to the sky.

The woods stretch and stand over you—looking overhead just shows you the treetops and slivers of the sky. They sway with the wind. Their dance drenches you in anxiety. Lingsha had given you a small flashlight before the game commenced, no bigger than your hand.

You press the button on its bottom, and the light flickers to life. It’s strong, but small; it only covered a tight area at a given moment. You stutter as you move, feeling somewhat hesitant to take off into the woods. It lurches over you as you crawl into it, slowly picking up pace. You feel like you’ve been swallowed. The wind whistles; it bristles against your shoulders; you look behind you, and it seems as though the trees have crowded around you. You can no longer see your friends.

It all looks the same. 

Dan Heng had told you that, and you remember what it was like from your childhood, but there’s a life in the woods that makes it so unlike memories. Leaves and twigs crunch under your every step. Some branches scratch against you as you run through. You don’t have an idea of where you’re going; you’re just moving until you find something to duck behind and hold your breath.

You think that you’re going farther east, and you’ll reach the edge of the property line before you know it. You also know that the amphitheatre has a few storage sheds you can tuck into. You pick up the pace, pushing north. 

Nothing is looking familiar—you flash the light all around, and all you see are trees. And…a shed, or an outhouse, or a stack of rotten wood. It’s just sitting there, all dark, all foreboding. You hear distant yelping and laughter. Three minutes have run out fast. You have no choice but to scurry ahead.

The door to the shed is stubborn as you pull it. It’s bare around it—hard dirt is the only thing it stands on. It’s like the grass and the trees, the life, is repelled. Something deep in your chest is attempting to dissuade you as well, but you’re defiant. 

It’ll only open a sliver. You have to hold your breath and turn to the side to slip in, and still, the gray wood rips against you. 

You suck in a deep breath, wincing quietly. You neglect pulling the door up and keeping a firm grip on the flashlight to grab your arm and look over your shoulder, trying to gauge if the pain you’re feeling is surface or cuts through your flesh. You can’t see all that well, but it feels like broad scuffs. The one time you wear a bathing suit, and you’re anywhere but the water.

The flashlight has rolled next to your foot, and you crouch to retrieve it. Shining it on the shed around you, you see the walls are covered with tools and…weapons. Short swords and thin daggers, cleavers and hatchets. Some are old and rusty, some are fresh and new.

A work table is right across the door, and there are scraps and pieces all over it. Homeless blades, with handles and sheaths waiting to give them life. There’s a gas, unlit candle in the corner. You can’t tell if it’s all recently used.

Maybe Stelle got the story details wrong, and The Hunter worked right here. 

You turn the flashlight off and tuck into the top left corner. You didn’t realize that the shed didn’t have a floor until you sit on it, the moist yet firm dirt. 

It’s quiet. Crickets sing around, and the greenery dances to them. There’s a distant owl hooting, and indistinct conversation among your peers—you can hear them calling your name, complaining to each other that you’re nowhere to be found.

Time is passing so slowly as you’re hiding away. Your mind has no choice but to wander…

Three days ago, Stelle was back scaring the campers again. She had much more time to tell the story of The Hunter—of the bouquets tied with twine, dead doves, and stumpy daggers he left for his crush. The prints he left on her windows and the breaths he left on her shoulders. The debauched love he tried to give away.

And when he snapped and killed the general, he wore the blood like a trophy. It stained his clothes, and he never took the time to clean himself up. His blade, which he used to bash the general and stab him once through, stayed streaked with blood.

The other military personnel said he had a crazy look in his eyes, something esoteric, something unalive. Beastly. He was no longer a man, but a figure of carnality, who needed to be put down.

They wrestled him down and shackled him, muzzling him. He was dragged down to the lake and— “This is where the story gets muddy,” Stelle said, “some say he was bludgeoned, others say he got decapitated, others say he was hung—either way, he died!”

You laugh to yourself. She’s so stupid—

Footsteps. 

They’re light, and they’re close. You can hear the dirt sinking around soles. You can hear the soft, measured breathing. You hold your breath.

You honestly didn’t anticipate being found out here; you don’t even know where you are. You don’t know how long you’ve been hiding either, but it feels like an eternity. 

Footsteps inch even closer. They’re right on the other side of the door. You slap a hand over your mouth intuitively.

The figure stands before the sliver of the door, blocking the moonlight. A head slips in and—

“Dan Heng?” You ask. Your voice is light on his name.

He grins, pushing the door open further. “Found you.” With the door wider, he can lend you a hand and help you to your feet. His other hand falls to your hip, to steady you. You sink into his touch. “How’d you end up all the way out here?”

You give a half shrug. “How’d you find me all the way out here?”

“You left some tracks; I just happened to notice them.”

“I did? Oh, fuck,” you spare a glance at your sandals. There’s mud caked up on the sides. “I was just running with no plan. I didn’t know where to go—usually, I hide with my friends, but…”

Dan Heng gives a short laugh, and you follow suit. You’re closer to him now. He holds you tighter. You lose your train of thought, and the two of you just linger in silence. 

He steps back out of the shed; you follow. He looks over his shoulder, then back to you. “We should probably get back to the lake,” he says. His voice is so soft, almost unsure.

“Probably,” you parrot, losing your sense in his eyes. Stars reflect in his eyes; it’s like you’re staring into the galaxy. You pull your arms to loop around his neck, to pull him in. Your bodies are closer than they’ve ever been—your hearts are closer than they’ve ever been. You feel this urge to be close to him, to have fun in a way you’ve been holding back from. “But not yet. Think we have a few minutes…”

He gets a little coy, a little shy. “What are you thinking of…?”

You lean into him, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. His hands instantly grip your waist. Then you peck him again, and again, and again, until he captures your lips in a breathtaking kiss. And you melt, and he holds you that much tighter, bringing you that much closer. 

The kiss is just as tender as the ones you’ve shared thus far, but so full of passion, it teeters over a dangerous edge. The attraction is so palpable, you can feel it dripping off of you. The moon and the stars are bright tonight, but they’re skewed by the trees. You have all the privacy of the universe. You two are the only things that matter.

You somehow stumble backwards, and your back collides with the side of the shed. Dan Heng’s hands roam timidly down your waist and in circles across your thighs. Your left leg instinctively hikes up, wrapping around his leg and pulling him in, impossibly closer. Your tongues slither into a waltz with each other; your lips smack against each other. Every second numbs your head and melts your surroundings. You feel totally safe with him, totally free to shed your guard and give in, chase him.

March was right—you do want to know what he sounds like, what he feels like, what he tastes like. You want to see his face and hear his voice first thing in the morning. You want him to be your normal, to be the prince to your princess and make your fairytale dreams come true. You want to be good to him. You want to make him feel good. 

He grunts into your mouth, softly, quietly, more breathy and light than anything else. Your smile breaks the seamlessness of the kiss. You giggle into the kiss, moving your hands to cup his cheeks.

“I like you a lot…” You whisper, lips still brushing his.

His eyes flutter, hesitant to open. His cheeks and the tips of his ears are pink. His smile is so boyish. He’s so soft, so good. It makes your heart pound in your chest.

“I like you a lot too,” he says, leaning in, brushing his nose against your face. “I’m grateful that I got to meet you this summer.”

Now, your fingers are lacing through his short, chocolate curls. He’s leaning into your touch, almost like a dog, so pleased by your affection.

You want to know what he sounds like, what he feels like, what he tastes like.

You kiss him again, this time heavier, with all the weight in your chest let out. The wind picks up, and the goosebumps on your skin become more pronounced. His hands trace them, finding stars in the patterns.

He lets you take the lead—he lets you overpower him, driving him backwards in an awkward shuffle into the shaft of a tree. He winces, and you mutter an apology, and he kisses the sorry away, swallowing it.

And there are soft whimpers in the back of his throat: ones that are fraught to slip out, but catch your ears. Ones that beg you to kiss him harder, to suck his tongue and draw a new layer of saliva across his lips.

Your name is a hushed mumble, and you return the favor. It must be the moonlight peeking through the trees, dawning on your skin, that’s making you feel feral, like you must give into him tonight.

You break the kiss to peck down his jaw, then his neck, his shoulder, his chest. His head is turned, his face is hot pink. He’s timid to look at you. “Dan Heng,” you call out to him, lightly scratching your nails against his skin. “Look at me… Do you trust me?”

His eyes find yours in the dim night. He nods, “Yes,” he answers with a thick gulp.

You squat down slowly, your fingers tracing the band of his trunks, eyes never leaving his.

Footsteps. You and Dan Heng freeze, heads snapping east to see if anybody’s coming. 

The life in the woods is loud: the insects humming, the wind rustling, the owls singing. Must’ve been a deer or something…

Your eyes meet again. Your fingers dip lower into his trunks, and he shivers.

“Are you sure?” He asks you. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to; but if you don’t—”

“No, no,” he cuts you off, voice slowly dying. “Please…” he croaks.

You feel a pulse below. You have to take a deep breath to calm yourself down, fluttering your eyes shut.

In that single second, Blade has appeared. 

You instinctively yelp, losing your balance and falling straight onto your ass. Dan Heng’s eyes blow wide, “What?! What’s wron—”

Thump!

Blade swings at him–what seems to be a short sword–the ricasso slamming against the side of Dan Heng’s head. He instantly folds over and hits the ground, hard. A scream is ripped out of your throat—you kick dirt from under your feet as you try to rise and scurry away, but you almost feel foreign in your body, like you can’t move. 

You look Blade in his face, which catches a thin sliver of moonlight. The top half of his face is shadowed, but you can see his mouth, flat, but the corners pulled ever-so-slightly up.

“Please, don’t hurt me,” you whimper. You’ve still failed to get up. You grip the ground in fear.

“I would never,” he replies. There’s a forlornness in his voice, a quietness. It’s not as tender as Dan Heng’s; Blade scares you. Your body hairs are up on end. You can tell he’s staring right into your face. “I need you.”

“Wh–  wh—” You sputter. You keep scooting away even though he doesn’t move an inch. “Please, no.” Your chest is tight. You somehow get onto your feet, and your legs feel so heavy, so disconnected from you. 

You don’t say another word. Your eyes flicker to Dan Heng, and you swear you can see blood on his temple, pouring out of his head. And you look back to Blade. He’s still unmoving, still as haunting as ever.

You take off.

Darting away into the vast woods, unsure if you’re going in the right direction. You just run, against the wind, against the feeling in your gut, against the tears in your eyes. 

You spare a look over your shoulder to see if he’s following you, but you can’t see anything. You can’t hear anything other than your own heavy breaths and steps. He could be right behind you, and you would never know.

You would never know that Blade’s letting you get ahead; he’s letting you get so close to getting away from him. 

And then the wind picks up again, and his hair swings in the wind, in the opposite direction. He drops the sword. And then he takes off, speed that of a beast.

You just keep running, taking leaves and branches to the face and across your body. One arm is holding your boobs taut to your chest; the other is swatting indiscriminately ahead of you. You hope that you’ll barrel into one of your fellow counselors and that you’ll save yourself, and hopefully Dan Heng.

As much as you want to stay focused on your escape, your mind is running as fast as your body. So many thoughts and images fly through: Dan Heng, your moment, how he wanted to go back—if you’d gone back when he found you, would everything be okay?—the others, Blade himself. You wonder if they’re okay, if Blade had gotten to them first.

Where are the security measures Ms Himeko and Mr Welt had set up? Where are the alarms and the lights—do they not come this far out? Where even are you? Is the camp close? Is anyone around? Can anyone help you?

You hear a twig snap to your left. “No!” You scream; you don’t know why.

You veer further right, barely avoiding the arms of a short and thick tree. You duck under, struggling to pull yourself up straight and keep going. You’re running off straight adrenaline and fear, and it feels like your chest is ready to explode.

Sweat runs down your hairline, and a droplet falls right into your eye. You yelp, immediately wiping your eye—the distraction takes you right into a tree stump, catching your leg and sending you into an unceremonious, ugly tumble. 

You roll down the slight slope, seemingly deeper into the woods. Rocks and branches scrape and scratch you, and the hard dirt is unforgiving against your weakening body.

The base of a tree catches you: you roll right into it, your stomach slamming hard against the bark. You choke out a gasp, your eyes shooting wide as the pain shoots through your entire body. 

It hurts to move, to try and stand up, but you do anyway, burying your nails in the tree bark. You want to scream and cry, but you’re too scared to make a sound, because you don’t know where he might be.

You just spend a second catching your breath, looking around, trying to spot anything. It all looks the same; just trees and shrubbery and darkness—nothing but a swallowing emptiness that dooms you. 

Which direction should you go? Nothing seems promising, nothing seems safe.

Footsteps.

You freeze.

Out of the corner of your left eye, you spot what seems to be a fallen tree. You should run. You know you should. But you’re scared, and you’re unsure, and you dive to the ground, ducking behind the fat log.

You lay your head on the back of your hand while the other one holds your mouth. In the few seconds on the ground, you can feel ants crawling up your legs and around your hips. You can’t move; you have no idea where he is, or if he can see you.

The footsteps come closer. They’re heavy, booted—they sound like the drums of death. 

Step. Step. Step. Boom. Boom. Boom.

Like the clap of thunder. And you can hear his breaths: heavy, like an exasperated hunt animal. You swear that he’s trying to sniff you out, and you swear that it’s working. His sounds get closer and closer, and you squeeze your eyes shut, holding your breath even though it hurts your chest.

And then they’re gone, decrescendoing into the forest’s natural ambience. You’re not adept enough to know which way he’s gone, but as you rise to your feet, cautiously, you hope it’s not the way you’re going.

You start running again, just as directionless as before. 

Footsteps.

Rapid, quick, close. You suck in a deep breath, looking over your shoulder, but you don’t see anything, still.

In the time it takes your head to swing back around, you’re colliding into something hard and falling straight onto your ass. You scream, trying to turn around and clamber to your feet, but Blade grabs your ankles, pulling you to him.

Your nails scratch against the dirt; grass is ripping straight from the root. He drops to his knees, straddling you to the ground. You try to fight yourself free, but he takes your arms and pins them hard to the ground.

You whine and writhe futily, refusing to acquiesce. 

He leans over you, and you feel his long hair brush against your exposed skin. You whimper, trying to move away, but he only leans in closer, until those beastly, fiery breaths fan against your face. 

“I’ve been waiting all night..for this,” he says lowly. And he breathes you in deeply, his nose pressed against your neck, right at your pulse. It’s fast like that of a rabbit. “I’ve been waiting on you forever, love.”

Fear and confusion etch deeply onto your face. You finally bring yourself to look him in the face, and you catch him waiting for you to look at him. His pupils are so far dilated that the sunniness of his irises is almost eclipsed. Frenzy lives in that darkness—a hungry, hysteric fervor.

His touch is weirdly cold. Icy. A stark juxtaposition against the thick heat around you. 

You still squirm in his hold, only slightly, as the fear slowly starts to whittle away at your ambition. He doesn’t move a muscle; he’s so undeterred by your efforts. He just breathes you in again, deeply, with a deep, satisfied, and guttural groan rattling out of him.

His hips jut softly against your thighs. You can feel a growing bulge pushing through his pants, threatening you. You suck in a shaky breath, squirming more. He only grips your arms tighter, a warning.

“I will never let you away from me, never again,” he says, his voice so dark and primal. And then, his head is directly over yours, and he’s leaning in, kissing you passionately. His lips are slightly chapped and dry—rough like dehydrated wood. You don’t kiss back; you squirm away. His tongue forces its way into your mouth, just to meet yours and make him quake. He sighs out, satisfied, leaning his forehead against yours. “Worth the wait,” he mumbles absentmindedly.

Your wrists are released, and they instantly ache. He drags the pads of his fingers down your arms, sweeping across your collarbones. And then his hands slink around your neck, and before you can react, they’re squeezing down, trapping the airflow in your chest. You wheeze, your eyes wide like the full moon tonight. So glossy and bright. Your arms flail, slapping and scratching him.

“Harder,” he instructs, his voice marred into a deep-seated growl. His hips snap with an uncontrollable strength. Tears slip down your face. You feel like you’re going to die. “Hit me harder. Like you want to hurt me.”

Fuzziness reverberates through you. You’re starting to lose sense of all reality; you’re starting to succumb to the darkness on the other side of your heavy lids. You wheeze like a fat pig, but you still try your best. Your weak fist repeatedly knocks against his sharp features, your buzzy palm swatting unsuccessfully.

He releases your throat. You lost enough air to spiral into a coughing fit, to be unable to use your body, to keep your consciousness.

He scoots down, sitting on the ground right in front of your feet. Your soles are pressed against his thighs. 

And you feel his fingers at your waistline. It tingles, and you feel the urge to run away from the feeling, but you’re only strong enough to flinch. They undo the ties to March’s swimsuit, making quick work of her tight knots. The way he tears them away is surprisingly tender. He brings the bottoms down and off your legs, and they come immediately to his face. His nose catches the seat of the bottoms perfectly, catching the sweat and the musk and the twinge of sweetness from your earlier arousal. 

You hear the air in his chest rumble. It makes your blood run cold. 

In a quick instant, his hands are pushing your legs up, and he’s wedging in between them. You can’t see him, and you refuse to look at him, but you can feel everything. You can feel his breath against your butt, then against your exposed cunt. And you can feel him nuzzle right into you, his nose against your clit and his mouth between your folds. You hitch a sharp breath while he inhales a deep breath, pulling the scent of your sweat, of your body, of your fear, deep into the recesses of his mind. He can smell the lake water still faintly clinging to you. He can smell what Dan Heng made you feel: sweet, excited, enticing, and how he makes you feel: salty, alarmed, repulsed. It’s an intoxicating mix—the purest a human could be.

And you can feel his mouth finally open, and his tongue pressing into your folds. It feels inhumanly long: the tip reaches down to your entrance, circling it momentarily, while the shaft dances in place against you. Again, your breath catches in your chest, and you can only wiggle around. Your throat hurts when you try to push out sounds, and your strength slowly returns.

He makes a loud, obscene sucking sound as he takes in your cunt. And then again, with a focus on your clit, that pounds like your heartbeat, that pounds like his footsteps. Boom. Boom. Boom. 

You hate the heat that blooms across your flesh, and the electricity that races through your veins. You hate that your throat hurts when you try to speak. “No,” You push. Your voice is gravelly and broken. “Please–”

Your breaths quicken as he attacks your clit. It’s so sloppy and uncoordinated, but the fear has marred your senses—it’s allowed you to feel the sensations deep in your gut, in your bones, in your head. You can feel your eyes getting heavy, and when the blackness takes over, you feel the thoughts telling you to receive the pleasure, to respond. And you don’t want to, you shake your head to try and stop the thoughts, but your body wants it. Your body trembles, your body dews, your body gives up.

And Blade swallows your submission, drinks it like a man dying of thirst. Your clit still receives attention as he focuses his attention on your now weeping hole, tracing his tongue around the pulsing and memorizing the beats. He wants to commit the way you taste and feel to memory. He wants to remember, intimately, the way your thighs start to press against his head, and your cunt flutters against his tongue as it sweeps through you. 

The way you shudder and try not to moan, but they slip out anyway. The way more and more arousal drips out of you like a broken spigot, and his mouth is the well to catch it all. He licks and licks and sucks and sucks, with a deafening volume that competes with the wildlife. 

Your orgasm builds quickly, and it feels so much different than anything you’ve ever felt before. It feels like tight pressure, like your stomach sinking into a void. It feels like everything is at your core, in Blade’s mouth, like that’s the beginning and end of everything in the world. Maybe in the universe.

His mouth handles the involuntary buck of your hips—his pace stays undeterred. If anything, it kicks up; his tongue flicks faster and rolls around in your folds like an excited puppy. And he groans into you, right toward your bones, so you can feel him indenting into your body. So you’ll never forget the way your body quaked, and your pussy dripped into him, for him.

He eats you to completion: until that pressure goes and releases in a steady downpour down the curve of your ass, until his tongue is chasing every last drop. And he pauses, pushing your legs further back until your thighs burn; all to sink his teeth deep into the fat of your butt, carving the shape of his maw into your skin. 

You give him a long, drawn-out whine, like a tire being deflated. Your hands capture the ground beneath you, and you squirm again, feeling too much that it starts to become nothing at all.

It feels like being swallowed by a black hole. It feels like there’s nothing left inside of you, like your soul has been reaped, and he keeps going. 

Blade doesn’t miss a beat. He’s back attacking your cunt, this time, more feverish, more beastly, with the grunts and snarls to pair. Like a vicious dog with a bone, he teeths and licks at you. And it truly is too much that it becomes nothing.

You’re hot like you’re in the heart of a star, but you’re empty like it’s exploded around you. Pleasure races through your veins at the lightspeed of a shooting star, and you’re too dazed to catch the bliss. It just blurs through you, setting your pelvis ablaze, feeding the ravenous beast more ichor.

He keeps going and going, not giving your nerves a second to rest. Your poor clit is stiff and puffy, exasperated, but still taken into his hot mouth, sucked and flicked around. You feel like a piece of meat being sucked off the bone, just a means of satiation.

And this time, you don’t really feel it: the build-up or the release. You just know you’ve came because everything feels wetter and stickier, and Blade chases the stream again, back to the spot he marked. He licks and sucks it all up. And he leaves a twin bite mark beside the previous one, right on the seat of your bottom.

Now, you can breathe. Only for a second. Your legs get to fold over each other for a second as Blade strips his pants away. You hear fabric tearing, which you can only assume is his underwear. And then your second of brevity is spoiled, because he’s touching you again.

This time, his touch is searing, burning into your skin. You can feel his fingerprints imprinting deeply into your flesh, polluting you forever. 

“No,” you whimper, using a defensive hand to swat at his touch. He ignores you. 

His hands on your waist harshly flip you over, giving you an unceremonious collision onto the ground. His hands are soon all over your body: first, positioning your hips, then spreading your legs out, then dancing up your spine, over your shoulder, then atop your left shoulder as his arm wraps against your neck. 

Then you feel his dick against you. You feel the weight, the girth, the length, the readiness. His arm around your neck presses harder, encasing you tightly in his hold. And as he begins to rut against you, you feel fresh tears well.

Grass tickles your sensitive clit, giving you tremors wracking all through you. You hang your head over his hold, becoming completely weak beneath him. He grunts like an animal. He feels like one on top of you. Legs trapping yours, bare cock against your ass, hands holding you hostage. And he just ruts against you, letting his cock wedge between your cheeks and be swallowed by the carnal warmth you emit. You can feel the ghost of him against your holes, and you clench and pulse and drip in pure fear, but he doesn’t take the plunge.

He only humps you, like a dog in heat, panting and grunting. Bare skin to bare skin. Person to person. And he leans forward, completely hostaging you against him. Heart to heart. 

“I love you,” he grits into your ear. He snakes a greedy, possessive hand under the bikini top, cupping a neglected breast. Hot tears run over your cheeks.

“Please—” you whimper. He’s tweaking your nipple, pinching the poor bud until your throat is squeaking. 

His hips snap harder. The drooling tip of his cock keeps tapping your back. “You’re the love of my life,” he mumbles. He sounds like he’s in another world—he is in another world. “You make air worth breathing. It’s all..ever been for you–”

“Please,” you repeat. It’s all you can say.

He abandons your nipple and makes a fast pace to your pussy. His fingers catch your clit, and you let out a wet gasp. Still so sensitive down there, still so wet, it takes nothing to light your fire, and his fingers start strumming again. He matches the pace of his thrusts; he makes your brain feel them in your stomach, feel like he’s taking your body inside and out.

Now, your voice is only a moan, weak and feeble. You wrap your hands around his forearm, sinking your nails into his skin. He doesn’t wince or reply; he only inhales deeply, running his tongue against the shell of your ear.

“I love you,” he says again.

“...I love you, too,” you reply, unsure of why. It feels like you should, maybe to make him feel better, to subdue the storm within him. His arm around your neck feels like it’s made of bricks, like it could crush your windpipe with ease.

He delivers a sharp thrust, pushing your whole body forward. “No, you don’t,” he says, and you gulp. You shake your head, trying to refute— “You hate me. Say you hate me.”

You feel inclined to listen to him. As your lips part, he pinches your clit, and your body stutters. Your brain stalls. You only do what’s at your foundation, what is the deepest part of you: you lightly sob, and you tell him, “I hate you. So fucking much.”

He groans; you don’t see how his eyes roll into the back of his head. 

His hips stall for a second as he lets his teeth sink into your shoulder, giving you another deep-seated bite. It makes you silently gasp.

“I hate you,” you repeat, voice quieter, but tone harder. It feels like his throat being sliced, or pelted to death by stones. It feels like a complete decimation. The ruins of love. “I want you to die for this—” you hiccup over a moan, and you drop your head. You sniffle, “You’re an animal… you’re sick.”

His thrusts return, shorter and faster, and his breaths are constant in your ear. “You’re my everything.”

“You’re nothing to me,” you spit, freeing a hand to claw his hand that plays with your clit. “Nothing.”

His sounds sound deeper, and you can feel him spiraling. You can feel his head going a mile a minute, and his heart thumping like a treacherous thunderstorm, like this void is ready to explode. 

And his orgasm is quick—his animalism pours out of him as he ruts shamelessly and pathetically against your butt. It takes a minute for the thrusts to start feeling wet, but soon you feel the wet warmth of his load being pooled in small ponds on your back, and spread between your cheeks.

“I need you,” he says, looping tight circles on your clit. Your hips pop back and forth against him, and you both groan gutturally, sharing the cold chill against your skin. You can’t hear him, not over your own heartbeat. He pulls you closer, skin to skin, head to head, heart to heart. “Right now, and forever.”

—----- 

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The incessant banging doesn’t stop.

The door is swung open with an exasperated sigh, but that quickly melts away. March, Stelle, Tingyun, and Sunday stand on the other side of the door, faces all melted in concern. 

“M-Ms Himeko! We have an emergency!” March exclaims, reaching through the threshold and pulling the older woman’s arm. “We need you!”

“Something very bad has happened, Miss,” Sunday says, his tone even yet unsure.

Himeko furrows her brows. “Is someone injured?”

They all share an uneasy look. 

“We think so…” Tingyun says.