Have you ever heard of the walk of shame? When you sleep with someone and have to shuffle out of their apartment carrying half your clothes? When I woke up this morning, it felt like that. Like there’s something I should be ashamed of—but all I have is the residue of a bad dream. A nightmare whispering threats and promises I don’t want to unpack yet.

  I shove the thought aside. I can’t deal with it right now. My blanket is tangled, my neck hurts, and my hands won’t stop shaking. And in this place, I won’t have time to unpack what happened anyway.

  I’ll take the sound of a whistle to wake up over coffee—said no one ever.

  It pierces the delicate silence of the cabin. Groans follow. People rubbing their eyes, stretching, joints popping—it all fills the space. Creepy Jeff stalks in, a bandage under his neck.

  He got what he deserved after all.

  He moves down the aisle, stopping near bunks like he’s counting heads. Pretending it’s routine. I watch him lean toward a girl on the bottom bunk across the cabin—too close, too familiar. My stomach tightens before I can stop it.

  Then I feel it.

  That pressure again. Like eyes on my back.

  I glance around, irritated with myself, until I spot the kid on the top bunk a few rows over. Light brown hair. Eyes like a shark’s—dark, predatory, dangerous. Still as a statue. He’s watching Jeff, not the girl. Not me. Just… watching.

  Jeff says something I can’t hear. The girl stiffens.

  The kid smiles.

  It’s not friendly. Not amused. It’s cold. Measured. Like he already knows how this ends. He drops from the top bunk with the grace of a cat, lifts a hand like he’s adjusting his sleeve—and drags a single finger across his throat. Slow. Deliberate. Almost lazy.

  Jeff freezes.

  I watch his face change. The false authority drains out of him, replaced with something small and panicked. He straightens too fast, mutters something, and moves on like nothing happened. Like he wasn’t just warned.

  That boy…

  He was here last night.

  The room doesn’t feel the same after that. The walls feel closer. The air heavier. I don’t know when the watching started—or who else is doing it—but I can feel it now, crawling under my skin. Every movement suddenly feels wrong. Too visible. Too exposed.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  I don’t feel protected.

  I feel monitored.

  Vaelan squats on her bunk, wrestling the stiff, itchy dress back over her head like it personally offended her. Marcus keeps glancing at me while he buttons his sleeves, concern obvious and poorly hidden.

  “You okay?” Vaelan asks, softer than usual. “You’re… quiet.”

  I shrug, smoothing the dress down like nothing’s wrong. “I’m not a morning person. I just need coffee before I commit a felony.”

  That earns a snort from Marcus, and for a second they seem satisfied. I almost am too.

  We’re herded out in a single-file line, Creepy Jeff planted smugly at the front like he owns us. The air outside is already warm, already heavy. In the cafeteria, noise swells—other cabins crammed together, overlapping conversations, plastic trays slapping down. We poke at the gray slop they call breakfast and trade stories anyway. Who got yelled at. Who didn’t sleep. Who cried.

  Then someone mentions it casually. Like it’s nothing.

  “Yeah, we lost one last night.”

  Another table nods. “Same.”

  Another. Another.

  My appetite vanishes. My chest tightens. I shovel the food down anyway—fast, sloppy—like if I stop chewing I’ll start thinking. Like if I think too hard, I’ll remember my brother, and the way people said lost like it wasn’t permanent.

  I shove the bowl away before anyone notices my hands shaking.

  The whistle shrieks again, merciless. Off to “work.”

  We’re marched into the sun—and then, impossibly, handed water. Actual, cold water. Marcus laughs under his breath. “Well. Guess we do get Christmas this year.”

  “It’s still July, idiot,” Vaelan mutters.

  I don’t smile. I know exactly why we got it.

  I feel the gaze before I see him. The boy from last night stands a little apart, watching—not leering, not curious. Measuring. Tracking my reaction, the way my shoulders tense, the way my eyes flick too often toward the treeline.

  Our eyes meet.

  I lift the cup, take a slow sip, and then—because I refuse to give him fear—I smirk and wink at him.

  He pushes his glasses back on his nose, tilts his head like a robot trying too hard to be human, and goes back to digging.

  I think about what Marcus said—about how kids will start ratting each other out once resources run thin. That’s survival 101.

  But this kid didn’t wait for that. He didn’t scramble or beg or trade favors. He just… stepped outside the equation.

  Like he’s playing chess while the adults are still arguing over the rules of checkers.

  Which means he didn’t just beat the system.

  He learned how to watch it.

  And I’m starting to get the feeling I’m one of the variables.

  Good for him. Gold star. Future cult leader material.

  I’d clap—if I wasn’t trying to figure out when I became part of the board.

  If there’s one thing I hate, it’s feeling like a science experiment.