Archive of Our Own

The projector started before any of you touched it.

A mechanical rattle filled the abandoned theater, followed by the soft, accelerating slap of film moving through a reel. Dust drifted from the projection booth above the balcony. The wide screen over the ruined stage descended with a shudder, its yellowed fabric catching on one corner before snapping into place.

Kon looked toward the booth. “You said the building didn’t have power.”

“It doesn’t.” Tim’s attention remained fixed on the scanner strapped to his wrist. The red light from the display sharpened the angles of his face beneath the cowl. “The electrical service was disconnected eleven years ago, and there isn’t a secondary generator.”

“Then the haunted projector seems like a problem.”

“It became a problem when it turned itself on.”

You swept your flashlight across the auditorium. Five evidence markers remained between the seats, each positioned where the police had recovered a backpack, jacket, or piece of recording equipment. The missing students had entered the Monarch Theater three nights ago for an unauthorized screening and never left. Every camera found inside had stopped recording at the same moment, although none showed what had interrupted the footage.

The screen brightened, and a countdown appeared in flickering black and white.

8

Tim’s head snapped up. “Don’t watch it.”

Kon turned away, but he’d already seen the first number. “A little late for that.”

7

You pulled a grappling line from your belt and fired toward the balcony. The hook caught the railing outside the projection booth, but the cable went slack before you could engage the motor. It landed at your feet in a loose coil, the metal hook severed as cleanly as if someone had cut through it with shears.

6

The auditorium doors slammed shut behind you.

Kon crossed the room before you heard the first footstep. Both hands struck the doors hard enough to send plaster raining from the frame, but the wood didn’t splinter, and the locks didn’t give.

5

Tim pulled a disc from his belt and threw it through the projector beam. The disc vanished inside the light. It didn’t emerge on the other side.

4

“That isn’t a projection,” Tim said.

3

The screen showed a narrow forest road beneath a washed-out summer sky. Pine trees crowded the cracked asphalt, their branches bending inward as though the forest were trying to close behind an approaching vehicle.

2

An engine coughed somewhere behind you.

1

The theater disappeared.

The van hit a pothole hard enough to throw your shoulder into Kon’s. He caught you automatically, one arm circling your waist while his other hand struck the back of the seat. Tim braced one hand against the back of the seat in front of you as the vehicle swerved across the road.

Kon’s head snapped backward against the window. He made a startled sound and pressed his palm to his skull.

You twisted toward him. “Are you hurt?”

“I don’t know.”

The answer was so unlike him that Tim turned immediately.

Kon stared at the stained ceiling of the van. He lifted one hand and pressed his fingers against the back of his skull. When he lowered them, there was no blood, but his face had gone strangely still.

“That hurt,” he said.

Tim reached across you and caught Kon’s wrist. His fingers settled over the pulse point before moving to Kon’s throat, then his jaw.

“What are you doing?” Kon asked.

“Checking whether you have a concussion.”

“I’ve had concussions.”

“You usually need to be hit by someone capable of leveling a building.”

The van bounced over another hole. Kon’s shoulder struck the glass, and he flinched before he could disguise it with irritation.

You looked toward the front. A young woman with dark curls drove with both hands wrapped tightly around the wheel. You recognized her from the photographs Tim had shown you before the patrol. Lila Moreno, twenty-one, film production major, last seen entering the Monarch Theater at 11:42 p.m. on Tuesday.

Owen Bell sat beside her with his feet propped against the dashboard, telling a story involving a police cruiser and a papier-mâché alien costume. Priya Shah held a paperback open on the bench behind them. Mateo Ruiz filmed the trees through the window with a compact Super 8 camera, while Sadie Cole slept against a stack of duffel bags.

All five students were alive, dressed as though they belonged in a summer movie released before any of you had been born.

Tim’s cape, cowl, and utility belt had vanished. He wore jeans, a faded gray T-shirt, and a canvas jacket with a university crest stitched over the pocket. Kon’s uniform had been replaced with a red sweatshirt and battered sneakers.

Your armor had vanished as well. There was no familiar weight at your hips, no reinforced fabric beneath your clothes, and none of the pressure points created by equipment strapped close to your body.

Kon looked down at himself before turning toward the passing trees. His eyes narrowed, but nothing happened.

He drew in a slow breath, then turned his head as though listening to something beyond the engine and the tires grinding over loose dirt. His expression tightened.

“Kon?” you said quietly.

“I can’t hear anything.”

Owen glanced back from the passenger seat. “That would be because I stopped talking. It doesn’t happen often, but I’d appreciate a little enthusiasm.”

Lila laughed.

Kon didn’t respond. His hand found yours, and you felt the rapid beat beneath his skin when your fingers closed around his.

He looked down at your joined hands. “I have a pulse,” he whispered.

“You’ve always had a pulse,” Tim said.

“I know that.” Kon pressed two fingers against the inside of his wrist. “I’ve just never needed to touch it to find it.”

Tim’s mouth tightened. He released Kon and began checking his pockets. A wallet had replaced the equipment he should’ve been carrying. Inside were thirty-seven dollars, a student identification card, and a folded photograph of the three of you standing outside a brick dormitory.

Kon appeared exactly as he did now, one arm around Tim’s shoulders and the other around your waist. Tim had been caught halfway through rolling his eyes, although he was leaning into Kon’s side. You held the camera’s remote and looked as though you’d started laughing before the picture was taken.

Someone had written across the back: First day of senior year. One more and we’re free. The photograph belonged to a life you’d never lived; you had never attended Gotham State University.

Tim passed you the photograph. “Check your pockets.”

You found an unfamiliar wallet, a ring of brass keys, and a folded employment form confirming your summer position at Camp Hollow Pines. Kon pulled out an identical contract and stared at the signature beneath his name.

“We’re camp counselors,” he said.

“Apparently.”

“With no powers.”

Tim glanced toward the others. “Don’t announce that.” 

“They know we’re dating.” Kon held up another photograph, this one showing him kissing your temple while Tim rested his chin against your shoulder. “Whoever did this provided documentation.”

“That doesn’t mean they know who we really are.”

“I’m not sure I know who I really am right now.”

You tightened your grip on his hand. Kon looked at you, and some of the panic left his face. He leaned across the narrow space to kiss you quickly, then reached over your lap for Tim.

Tim allowed Kon to pull him closer. His gaze stayed on the road, but he rested his hand against the back of Kon’s neck and kept it there.

The van rounded a curve, and a wooden sign appeared between the trees.

WELCOME TO CAMP HOLLOW PINES

The painted letters had faded to brown. Someone had carved a date into the lower plank.

SUMMER 1987

Tim watched until the sign disappeared behind the van. “We’re inside the film.”

Camp Hollow Pines consisted of twelve cabins, a dining lodge, an infirmary, a boathouse, and a recreation hall arranged around the edge of a dark lake. Pine trees surrounded the grounds so densely that the road seemed to vanish almost as soon as Lila parked the van.

The air smelled of wet earth, decaying leaves, and wood smoke. You stepped onto the ground and reached instinctively for the grappling gun that wasn’t attached to your hip.

Tim noticed the movement. “Your procedural memory is intact.”

“I’d rather have the equipment.”

“So would I.”

Kon climbed out behind you and landed with both feet on the dirt. His knees bent slightly, but he didn’t rise again. He stood very still, staring at the ground.

“What happened?” you asked.

“I was expecting it to crack.”

Tim looked at the shallow depressions beneath Kon’s sneakers. “You weigh the same.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

Kon had spent his entire life adjusting each movement to a body capable of damaging almost anything it touched. Even when kryptonite or magic weakened him, the vulnerability had been an injury inflicted on a person who understood strength. This was different. He stood in the center of the road with a body that didn’t need restraint and senses that ended somewhere between the cabins and the tree line.

Lila opened the van’s rear doors. “Cabin assignments are the same as the applications. Priya and Sadie have Six, Owen and Mateo have Seven, and I’ll be in the director’s cabin.”

She tossed a key toward you, and you caught it before checking the number stamped into the brass.

“The three of you are in Two,” she continued. “Don’t complain about the mattresses. You asked for privacy, and that’s the only cabin with enough space.”

Kon glanced at Tim. “This world respects our relationship.”

Tim took the key from your hand. “That’s your primary concern?”

“My primary concern is that I can’t fly. I’m choosing to appreciate the smaller victories.”

Owen dragged two bags from the back of the van. “Are you going to spend the whole weekend being disgustingly attached, or do you plan to help?”

“Both,” you said.

Owen pointed at you. “See, that’s why you’re my favorite.”

Pressure gathered behind your eyes.

For a moment, you remembered Owen spilling soda across a table in the office of Gotham State’s student union while Mateo tried to clean it with someone else’s jacket. You remembered Kon laughing hard enough to choke on a French fry while Tim threatened to leave all of you there.

The memory vanished when you reached for it. You’d never set foot inside Gotham State’s student union office.

Tim met your gaze across the road. He had felt it too.

The camp had supplied more than clothing and photographs. Another life waited beneath your real memories, incomplete but ready to surface whenever the story needed a piece of history.

Cabin Two was small, with a narrow porch and green shutters hanging unevenly beside the windows. Inside, two twin beds had been pushed together beneath a patchwork quilt. A third mattress lay across the foot, creating enough space for three people if nobody minded losing circulation below the knees.

Kon sat on the edge, and the mattress springs groaned.

“At least the universe knows how we sleep,” he said.

Tim shut the door. “It wants us comfortable enough to accept the premise.”

He crossed to the window and tested the latch while you checked the closet, floorboards, and space beneath the beds. Kon remained where he was, staring at his hands. 

You sat beside him. “How bad is it?”

“I don’t know how to answer that.” He rubbed his thumb across his palm. “Everything stops too close.”

“The sounds?”

“The sounds. The air. I can’t feel the building settling through the floor. I can’t tell how far away the others are. I don’t know what’s behind that wall.”

Kon tapped his knuckles lightly against the wooden paneling.

Tim glanced over his shoulder. “Probably another wall.”

Kon looked at him. “Thank you, detective.”

“You’re welcome.”

Tim knelt in front of him and examined his eyes. “Your vision seems normal. Can you smell anything unusual?”

“Old wood, dust, you, her, and whatever Owen spilled on my sweatshirt.”

“That’s probably normal too.”

Kon gripped the bed frame and applied pressure. The wood creaked but didn’t splinter. His eyebrows drew together.

“I’m stronger than an average person,” he said.

“You work out,” you reminded him.

“I’ve never needed to work out.”

“You do it anyway.”

“Because Clark said it builds discipline. I thought it was mostly a bonding activity.”

Tim caught Kon’s hand before he could test the frame again. “Don’t experiment by trying to break things.”

“I need to know what I can do.”

“You also need to avoid tearing a muscle or breaking a bone.”

Kon stared at him. “I could break my own hand.”

“If you hit something incorrectly.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s common.”

“Humans are badly designed.”

Tim’s thumb moved across Kon’s knuckles. “You’re human.”

“I’m usually human with structural advantages.”

You leaned your shoulder against his. “We’ll help you figure out the limits before they become important.”

“This is a horror movie,” Tim said. “They’re already important.”

Kon tipped his head back. “You could have waited ten seconds before saying that.”

The cabin door opened without warning, and all three of you reacted at once. You caught the intruder’s wrist while Tim swept one leg behind their ankles and Kon surged from the bed with enough momentum to compensate for every missing ability.

Lila hit the floor. She stared up at you.

You released her immediately. Tim stepped away, and Kon looked horrified by what he’d nearly done.

“I’m so sorry.”

“What the hell is wrong with you people?”

“You didn’t knock,” Tim said.

A stack of folded towels lay in the doorway.

Kon offered her a hand. She looked at it before allowing him to pull her upright, and the sudden shift in weight nearly dragged him down again. You caught him around the waist.

Lila stared.

Kon cleared his throat. “The floor’s slippery.”

“It’s unfinished wood.”

“Very deceptive material.”

Lila retrieved the towels and pressed them against her chest. Irritation remained in her expression, but concern had begun to replace it.

“You’re nervous,” she said.

A false memory surfaced. Lila sitting beside you in a campus theater while she whispered commentary through an entire movie. Kon tossing popcorn at both of you from the row behind. Tim confiscating the bag without looking away from the screen.

You pushed the images aside as Lila’s expression flickered. For a second, she seemed frightened by something she couldn’t name, but the fear smoothed into an easy smile.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “The camp hasn’t killed anyone in ten years.”

Tim went still.

Lila laughed. “That was a joke.”

“Was it?” you asked.

Her smile remained, although uncertainty had entered her eyes. “Dinner’s at six. Orientation afterward.”

She left before any of you could stop her.

Tim waited until her footsteps faded. “The film corrected her.”

Kon looked toward the closed door. “She almost remembered.”

“The film tried to overwrite us too,” Tim said. “It just hasn’t made us forget enough for the memories to take.”

You picked up the towels. “Can we pull them out of it?”

“Possibly. We need to understand how the world maintains itself before we force anything.”

“And until then?”

Tim looked through the window toward the lake. “Until then, we don’t follow anyone into the woods.”

🐦‍⬛ 🔪 ☀️

Dinner was served in a lodge large enough to hold a hundred campers. Eight of you sat at one table beneath strings of paper lanterns, surrounded by empty benches that would supposedly be occupied when the camp opened for the season the following week.

According to the memories pushing against the inside of your skull, you had all been hired to clean the cabins, test the equipment, and prepare the grounds before the first families arrived.

According to Tim, that was merely the story’s excuse for isolating eight college students in a forest without children, adult supervision, or reliable transportation.

“It’s economical,” he said under his breath.

You passed him a bowl of canned green beans. “People will notice if you keep discussing the narrative structure.”

“I’m evaluating our circumstances.”

“You called the van ominous.”

“The brakes failed twice.”

“Lila said they were sticking.”

“They’ll become more dramatic when we try to leave.”

Across the table, Mateo lifted his camera and pointed it toward Tim. It was a compact Super 8 model, the same one visible in photographs from the missing-person investigation. He focused it on Tim.

Tim stared at the lens.

Mateo lowered it. “You’re less fun here than you were at school.”

“I’m exactly as fun.”

“That’s the problem.”

Owen laughed into his cup while Priya turned a page of her book.

“Could we finish one meal without provoking him?” she asked.

“We’ve never tried,” Sadie said.

More memories brushed against you. Parties you hadn’t attended, classes you hadn’t taken, and a winter afternoon the eight of you had spent crammed into a diner booth while snow covered the windows.

The memories felt warm enough to be tempting.

Kon’s knee pressed against yours beneath the table. His other leg remained against Tim’s, maintaining contact with both of you whenever the arrangement allowed it. He’d barely touched his food.

You nudged his plate. “When did you last eat?”

“I don’t know. Before the theater.”

“That was hours ago.”

“It could’ve been less than a minute.”

“Your body believes it’s been hours.”

Kon picked up his fork and ate several bites with the concentration of someone following medical instructions.

Lila stood at the head of the table and tapped a spoon against her glass. “Orientation.”

Owen groaned.

“You volunteered.”

“I was under the impression there would be attractive people and minimal responsibility.”

“There are eight attractive people,” Kon said.

Owen pointed his fork at him. “That attitude is why you’re popular.”

Tim didn’t look up from his plate. “He’s popular because he can make friends with hostile animals and emotionally unavailable detectives.”

“You’re admitting you’re emotionally unavailable?”

“I’m identifying the category you assigned me.”

Lila struck the glass again, and the paper lanterns flickered. Outside, wind moved through the pines.

“There are three rules,” she said. “Stay out of the equipment shed unless someone is with you. Don’t take the boats beyond the red markers. If the old bell rings outside of meals, ignore it.”

Owen leaned forward. “You can’t give us a rule like that without telling the story.”

“I can.”

“You absolutely can’t.”

Sadie closed her eyes. “He’s going to keep asking.”

“I know.”

Lila looked toward the lodge windows. Darkness had settled over the camp, turning the glass into black mirrors.

“When Hollow Pines first opened, the groundskeeper lived here with his son,” she said. “The boy drowned during the summer of 1967. Nobody noticed he was missing until the dinner bell rang, and by then he’d been in the lake for hours.”

Kon’s fork stopped moving.

“The groundskeeper blamed the counselors. Ten years later, when the camp reopened, he returned during orientation weekend. He cut the phone line, disabled the vehicles, and killed everyone except one girl.”

“What happened to him?” Mateo asked.

“The girl knocked him into the lake.”

“And the body was never recovered,” Tim said.

Lila looked at him. “Have you heard the story?”

“No. It’s structurally predictable.”

“She took his mask after the fight,” Lila continued. “It was a white deer mask from the camp’s nature pageant. They found it floating beside the dock the next morning.”

“Why was he wearing it?” Priya asked.

“Because a regular groundskeeper would be less marketable,” Tim murmured.

You kicked his ankle beneath the table. Lila’s attention shifted toward the far wall.

A cracked white mask hung above the fireplace. Its narrow face had been painted with a deer’s black nose and empty eyes, and two wooden antlers rose from the top.

The lights flickered again, and for a moment, someone stood beneath the mask. The figure was tall and broad beneath a green work coat. His head was bowed, and one hand rested around the handle of an axe.

The lights steadied. The wall beneath the mask was empty.

You stood quickly enough to scrape the bench across the floor. Kon rose beside you, and Tim had already crossed half the lodge before anyone else reacted.

“What?” Lila asked.

He reached the fireplace and checked behind the stone columns. “Someone was standing here.”

Owen smiled uneasily. “That isn’t funny.”

“We’re not joking,” you said.

Mateo lifted his camera. The lens pointed toward the empty fireplace.

Tim looked up at the mask. “Has that been there all evening?”

Lila frowned. “Of course.”

“It wasn’t.”

“I hung it this afternoon.”

“You didn’t.”

Her face tightened. “I did.”

The lodge fell quiet.

Lila pressed her fingers against her temple, looking increasingly confused. “I hung it after we unloaded the van.”

You had been watching the lodge while the others carried supplies. The wall above the fireplace had been bare. Tim reached for the mask.

The dinner bell rang outside. The sound rolled through the camp three times, each strike deeper than the last. 

Lila’s face lost its color.

Owen looked around the lodge. “It’s not mealtime.”

The lights went out. Someone screamed as bodies collided in the darkness. A chair overturned and glass shattered against the floor.

“Tim,” you called.

“Here.”

His hand found your arm. Kon caught your other hand, and the three of you pressed together while the bell continued ringing beyond the lodge.

“Everyone stay where you are,” Tim ordered.

A flashlight clicked on near the kitchen. Priya held it in front of her. Lila stood beside the table, Owen crouched near the overturned chair, and Sadie had backed against the wall.

Mateo was gone.

The wall above the fireplace was bare. The deer mask had vanished during the blackout.

The bell stopped. The lodge door stood open, allowing cold air to move through the room.

Tim counted the people even though the answer was already clear.

“Why would he go outside?” Sadie asked.

“He wouldn’t,” you said.

Owen looked toward the open door. “Maybe he saw whoever was messing with us.”

“Mateo!” Lila shouted.

The forest swallowed his name.

Tim took the flashlight from Priya. “Nobody leaves alone.”

“You’re not in charge,” Lila said.

“I don’t need to be in charge for that to be sensible.”

Kon grabbed a long iron poker from beside the fireplace and tested its weight before adjusting his grip.

Owen looked at him. “Have you used one of those before?”

“No.”

“Great.”

“He’s still the second-most qualified person here,” you said.

Tim glanced toward you. “Second?”

You took a knife from the table and held it low against your thigh. “Your weapon is a flashlight.”

They found Mateo’s camera twenty yards from the lodge. It lay in the center of the path with the film still running, its lens pointed toward the trees. Tim stopped you before you stepped closer.

“Don’t touch it.” He crouched to examine the wet dirt, but there were no tracks around the camera.

Kon stared into the forest. “I hate this.”

“The woods?” Owen asked.

“The distance.”

Kon’s voice was quiet.

You understood. The trees should have been transparent to him. He should have heard Mateo’s breathing, the scrape of fabric against bark, the electrical activity of every living thing within miles.

Instead, he saw what you saw: darkness crowded between narrow trunks.

Tim picked up the camera by its strap. “The film is warm.”

“It was running,” Priya said.

“It’s warmer than the motor should make it.”

A crash came from the lake. Lila ran before anyone could stop her.

The others followed, every careful instruction forgotten as the story pulled the group toward its next scene. 

The boathouse door swung slowly from one hinge. Water tapped beneath the dock, and a weak light flickered inside the building.

Lila stepped through the doorway. “Mateo?”

The camera in Tim’s hand began to rattle. Its film advanced without anyone touching the controls. The bulb hanging from the rafters brightened.

Mateo hung from the center beam. A strip of film had been wrapped around his throat. His feet turned slowly above the floor, and one shoe was missing. Blood covered the front of his shirt where something had opened him from ribs to stomach.

Priya stumbled backward. Owen turned and vomited over the side of the dock. Lila made a broken sound.

Kon moved first. He dropped the poker and climbed onto the workbench beneath Mateo, wrapping both arms around the body. “Cut him down.”

You climbed beside him and reached for the film. It tightened beneath your knife without splitting. Tim found a pair of rusted scissors hanging from the wall and cut through the strip. Mateo’s weight dropped into Kon’s arms.

Kon nearly fell. You caught Mateo’s shoulder while Tim grabbed Kon around the waist, and together you lowered the body to the floor.

Kon knelt beside him, breathing hard. His hands were covered in blood. “I thought I could hold him,” he said.

“You did.”

“I almost dropped him.”

“He was heavier than you expected.”

“I know what a person weighs.”

“You know what a person weighs when the number doesn’t matter.”

Priya sank beside Mateo and touched his throat, though none of you needed her confirmation. “He’s dead.”

The bulb went out, and something moved behind you.

You turned in time to catch an axe handle with both hands. The blade stopped inches from your face, but the impact drove you to one knee.

The person holding it wore the white deer mask. His coat smelled of lake water and rot.

You twisted the handle and struck his wrist with your forearm. The axe slipped sideways. Tim drove the scissors into the figure’s shoulder.

The Groundskeeper didn’t react. He backhanded Tim across the boathouse. Tim hit the wall hard enough to crack a board.

Kon roared and charged. He drove his shoulder into the Groundskeeper’s chest at full speed. 

For one terrible instant, he appeared to expect the other man to fly through the wall. The Groundskeeper moved back a single step, and Kon’s expression changed as he realized how little the impact had done.

The killer caught him by the throat and threw him across the workbench. Wood splintered beneath Kon’s back. You drove the knife into the gap beneath the mask. The blade met resistance, then slid through something that should’ve been flesh. Black film spilled around your hand.

The Groundskeeper seized your wrist.

Tim snatched up the iron poker Kon had dropped and struck the back of the Groundskeeper’s knee. The killer staggered, and Kon kicked upward from the broken bench, driving both feet into his chest.

This time, the Groundskeeper fell through the doorway. He hit the lake without making a splash. You ran to the edge of the dock. The water was perfectly still.

“He vanished,” Owen whispered.

Priya gasped behind you. Mateo’s body was gone. Only the blood remained.

They carried Kon back to the lodge.

He insisted he could walk until his knees buckled halfway up the path. You caught one arm while Tim took the other, and Kon stopped arguing long enough to let you support his weight.

The others followed in silence. Inside, Priya cleared the dining table while you and Tim helped Kon onto it. He obeyed after you put both hands against his shoulders and pushed.

His sweatshirt had torn across the back. Dark bruises were already spreading beneath his skin.

Tim pressed carefully along Kon’s spine. “Tell me if anything feels numb.”

“Nothing.”

“Pins and needles?”

“No.”

“Can you move your feet?”

Kon lifted one foot, then the other. You watched for any hesitation while Tim checked his pupils and examined his ribs.

“I don’t think anything’s broken,” Tim said, jaw tight. “But he needs proper medical equipment for this. We’re working blind here.”

“We’ll take the van,” Lila said.

“The brakes will fail,” Tim replied.

Owen wiped his mouth with a shaking hand. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You knew Mateo would die?”

Tim looked at the blood drying across his fingers. “I understood that someone would.”

“Then stop acting like you know what’s happening.” Owen’s voice cracked at the end.

Lila crossed the room and grabbed the front of Tim’s jacket. “Mateo is dead.”

“He may not be.”

“We saw him.”

“We also saw his body disappear.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s alive.”

“It means the rules governing this place aren’t physical.”

Lila shoved him. Tim allowed it.

“Listen to yourself,” she said. “You’re talking like we’re inside a movie.”

“We are.”

Lila stared at him.

You stepped between them before she could strike him again. “Three nights ago, all five of you went to the Monarch Theater in Gotham. You were screening an unfinished film that Mateo bought at an estate sale. Your phones, bags, and recording equipment were found inside the auditorium. The police have been searching for you since Tuesday.”

Lila’s grip loosened.

Owen laughed once, although there was no humor in it. “We’re students at Gotham State.”

“Yes.”

“We drove here this morning.”

“You walked into a theater three nights ago.”

Pain crossed Lila’s face. She pressed both hands against her temples while Sadie backed toward the wall.

“Stop,” Sadie whispered.

“You’re Lila Moreno,” Tim said. “Your mother reported you missing at two in the morning. Owen, your roommate told the police you were bringing beer to the screening. Priya, your sister has called your phone forty-three times.”

Priya’s face changed. The flashlight slipped from her hand.

“I have a sister,” she whispered.

The lodge lights flickered. The room tilted around you.

You remembered applying to Camp Hollow Pines in March. You remembered meeting Tim and Kon in your first-year film theory class, although the scene contradicted everything you knew about the first time you’d met either of them. 

The false memories pushed harder, trying to cover each fact that belonged to your actual life.

Kon’s hand closed around yours. His grip was weak by his standards and painfully tight by anyone else’s.

“Don’t let it tell you who you are,” he said.

You focused on your boys. Tim stood on the other side of the table with blood drying beside his mouth. A thin scar crossed his eyebrow, earned during a rooftop fight years ago. The film had preserved it because it had copied your bodies without understanding their histories.

You held on to that.

“Lila,” you said, “what was the name of the film?”

She looked toward you with wide eyes. “Last Weekend at Hollow Pines.”

By the time you reached the recreation hall, the mechanical rattle of the projector was already loud enough to carry through the walls.

Inside, the air smelled of mildew and old paint. Rows of folding chairs faced a low wooden platform where campers had once performed talent shows and plays, with heavy curtains hanging on either side, their red fabric darkened with age.

The sound came from beneath the stage. Tim followed it to a hidden door, but none of the keys from the lodge fit the lock. You broke it with a fire extinguisher while Kon leaned against the wall with one hand pressed to his ribs.

“You should stay with Priya,” Tim said.

Kon straightened. “You were thrown through a wall.”

“I’m not the one learning how bones work.”

“I know how bones work.”

“You tackled someone as though you were still invulnerable.”

“I forgot.”

“That’s the problem.”

You stepped between them. “Neither of you is staying behind.”

Tim’s jaw tightened. “There are seven of us left. Someone needs to keep the others together.”

“Lila and Priya can do that.”

“Lila only remembers half of the real world.”

“She remembers enough to lock the doors.”

Kon pushed away from the wall. “I’m coming.”

Tim looked at him for several seconds before reaching up and touching the unbruised side of his face. “You tell us when it gets worse.”

“I will.”

“You don’t hide an injury because you believe we need you.”

“I won’t.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m promising to improve.”

Tim kissed him, brief and angry. Kon caught the back of Tim’s jacket before he could pull away and kissed him again, slower this time. You watched until Kon opened one eye and looked toward you.

“Are you waiting for an invitation?”

“You’re both covered in boathouse.”

“So are you.”

“That isn’t the persuasive argument you think it is.”

Tim caught your wrist and pulled you in anyway. The kiss tasted faintly of blood and the canned peaches you all had eaten with dinner. Kon’s hand settled at your waist with unfamiliar care, as though he had finally understood that every part of him could bruise.

Tim rested his forehead against yours. “We end this, then we do that properly.”

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

The room beneath the stage was larger than it should have been.

Shelves covered every wall, stacked with rusted film canisters. Hundreds of handwritten labels faced outward.

WINTER FORMAL. THE HOUSE ON BRIAR STREET. PROM NIGHT, AGAIN. LAST TRAIN FROM GOTHAM.

Each title had a date written beside it. Some were decades old, while others had been added within the past year.

A strip of film moved endlessly through the projector at the center of the room. It emerged from a hole in one wall, passed through the machine, and vanished into another.

Images flashed across a hanging sheet.

The lodge appeared first. You watched yourselves gather around the table while Lila told the story. The angle changed without any visible camera, cutting from one face to another as though an unseen director had assembled the scene.

The film followed Mateo as he left the lodge and walked through the woods.

He didn’t choose to go. His expression remained terrified while his body carried him toward the boathouse.

Kon stepped closer to the screen. Mateo entered the building, where the Groundskeeper waited beneath the rafters.

Tim stopped the projector, and the image froze. The film continued moving through the locked gears.

“That should’ve torn the film,” he said.

You examined the shelves. One canister sat open beside the projector, and fresh writing covered the lid.

MATEO RUIZ — VOYEUR.

Inside, a short loop showed Mateo hanging from the boathouse rafters. The scene repeated every four seconds.

“He’s in there,” Kon said.

“Part of him is.”

“Can we get him out?”

“I don’t know.”

Tim searched the table beneath the projector and found a stack of index cards bound with twine.

The first card read: THE AUTHORITY REFUSES TO BELIEVE.

The next several cards listed the other roles.

THE COMIC RELIEF DIES WHEN THE JOKES END.

THE SKEPTIC FINDS PROOF TOO LATE.

THE LOCAL KNOWS THE WAY OUT.

THE PROTECTOR DIES FOR THE SURVIVOR.

THE INVESTIGATOR DISCOVERS THE TRUTH.

THE SURVIVOR FACES HIM ALONE.

One final card lay facedown beneath the twine. Tim turned it over. THE VOYEUR SEES TOO MUCH. 

The word COMPLETED had been written beneath the role. 

Kon took the cards from Tim. “The protector.”

Tim found a second stack. Names appeared beneath the roles. Lila was the authority. Owen was the comic relief. Priya was the skeptic, and Sadie was the local.

Kon’s name appeared beneath THE PROTECTOR, Tim’s beneath THE INVESTIGATOR, and yours on the final card: THE SURVIVOR.

Kon tore the card in half, but the pieces had barely struck the floor before the same words appeared across both halves: THE SURVIVOR FACES HIM ALONE.

“I hate this movie,” Kon said.

Tim examined the projector. “It’s building toward a fixed ending.”

“Then we change it.”

“This world can alter memory, location, and continuity. It can move people between scenes without them noticing. Changing the ending won’t be as simple as refusing to participate,” Tim said.

“You’re saying we need to participate?”

“I’m saying we need to find the point where the structure becomes vulnerable.”

The projector clicked. A title card appeared on the sheet.

SECOND ACT.

Glass shattered somewhere above them. The lodge door stood open when you returned. Rain swept across the porch, scattering leaves through the entrance.

Priya appeared at the top of the stairs leading to the storage loft. “They’re gone.”

“Who?” Lila asked.

“Owen and Sadie. The lights went out for a second, and when they came back on, the door was open.”

Headlights flickered through the trees. The van’s engine started.

By the time you reached the parking area, Owen was behind the wheel. Sadie sat in the passenger seat arguing with him, while Lila stood outside with both hands locked around the sliding door handle.

“Owen, stop!” Lila shouted.

He shifted into gear. Lila stumbled backward as the van accelerated down the road.

Tim sprinted after it with you beside him and Kon several steps behind. The taillights vanished around the curve.

A moment later, headlights appeared behind you. The van came from the opposite direction at twice its previous speed.

“Move!” you shouted.

Everyone scattered.

The vehicle tore past and struck the camp sign. Wood exploded beneath the bumper. The van spun across the dirt before crashing into a tree. You reached it first.

Sadie lay slumped across the dashboard, unconscious but breathing. The driver’s seat was empty. Before anyone could ask how, a hand slapped against the rear window. Owen was wedged behind the back bench, although he’d been driving when the van disappeared around the curve.

“It moved him,” Tim said.

“Owen!” Lila shouted.

You pulled the side door open. Something dragged him away. His fingers scraped across the glass as Kon climbed inside without hesitation.

“Kon, wait!”

He grabbed Owen’s forearms. The van shook as Kon braced one foot against the bench and pulled. Every muscle in his arms tightened. For a second, Owen moved toward him.

The metal floor split beneath the rear seat. A hooked blade drove through Owen’s chest.

His mouth opened, and blood spilled across Kon’s hands.

The blade withdrew. Owen vanished through the floor. Kon lunged after him.

You caught the back of his sweatshirt while Tim seized his belt. Together, you pulled him out before the van collapsed inward with a scream of twisting metal.

The windows shattered. Film poured through the frames and wrapped around the wreckage until nothing remained visible beneath the black strips.

When the film fell away, the van was gone. Only Owen’s blood remained on the ground.

Kon sat in the mud while rain ran down his face. “I had him,” he said.

You knelt in front of him.

“I had both arms.”

“The story took him,” Tim said. “Strength wouldn’t have changed that.”

Kon looked at his hands. “Mine might have.”

“Your powers aren’t here.”

“I noticed.”

Tim crouched beside him. Kon turned away.

You caught his jaw gently and made him look toward you. “He may not be dead.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Mateo is trapped inside a reel. Owen probably is too.”

“That’s meant to make me feel better?”

“It means we may still be able to bring them home.”

Kon closed his eyes and rested his forehead against yours.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he whispered.

“You’re surviving.”

“I don’t know how.”

The words disappeared beneath the rain.

Tim moved closer until his shoulder pressed against Kon’s. “You ask for help.”

Kon opened his eyes.

“You let us check the injuries,” Tim continued. “You stop when one of us tells you to stop, and you don’t guess how much your body can withstand.”

“You hate stopping when someone tells you.”

“I’m familiar with the consequences.”

“You’re both terrible examples.”

You kissed the corner of Kon’s mouth. “Survive long enough to file a complaint.”

The dinner bell rang. This time, the sound came from the infirmary.

Sadie woke screaming.

By the time you carried her inside, she was sobbing hard enough to lose her breath. Priya sat beside her on a narrow bed and guided her through each inhale while Lila locked the shutters.

“We found the reel in Mateo’s uncle’s collection,” Sadie said. “He bought old film equipment from an estate sale. The canister didn’t have a title until we put it into the projector.”

“What appeared?” Tim asked.

“Last Weekend at Hollow Pines.”

The title matched the one on the film society’s event page.

“We thought Mateo had written it as a joke,” Sadie continued. “The movie started with us driving into camp, wearing these clothes. Then the screen went white.”

Lila sat on the opposite bed. “Why didn’t I remember?”

“Because you’re the authority,” Kon said.

Everyone looked at him.

He leaned against the medicine cabinet, pale beneath the infirmary lights. “The story needs you to dismiss the danger and keep everyone here until enough people die.”

Lila recoiled.

“That isn’t who you are,” you said. “It’s what the film is making you do.”

“And Owen?”

Tim placed the role cards on the table. Lila read them. When she reached the second role, she hunched in on herself.

Priya took the stack from her. “The skeptic finds proof too late.”

“The local knows the way out,” Sadie read, her expression tightening. “I know where the old service tunnel is.”

Tim looked at her. “Where does it lead?”

“From the recreation hall to the other side of the lake. The fake memories say the camp used it during storms.”

“The road loops,” he said. “The tunnel may not.”

Kon pushed away from the cabinet. “Then we use it.”

Tim caught his arm when he swayed. “You’re not walking that far.”

“I can walk.”

“Your lips are turning gray.”

“Maybe they’re always this color now.”

Priya stepped between them. “Lie down.”

Kon looked toward you for support. You pointed at the bed. He muttered something under his breath but obeyed.

Priya lifted his sweatshirt and examined the bruising again. “You need rest.”

“The Groundskeeper probably won’t honor medical leave.”

“He may not need to,” Tim said.

You recognized the expression on his face. He had reached the part of the problem where fear turned into structure.

“The film operates through designated scenes,” he continued. “Mateo established the threat, and Owen’s death punished the escape attempt. Sadie is supposed to lead us toward the tunnel, which means the tunnel belongs to the intended sequence.”

“You believe it’s a trap,” Lila said.

“Every location is a trap. The tunnel may still take us somewhere useful before it closes.”

Priya looked toward the cards. “What happens after Sadie leads us out?” 

“The roles describe the sequence the film needs, not every death. Mateo’s part is already complete. Sadie leads us out, Priya finds proof, I discover the truth, Kon protects the survivor, and then the survivor faces the killer alone.”

You picked up your card. The torn pieces had joined themselves. “What happens to Lila?”

“The authority usually dies after finally believing the warning, but her card doesn’t show us when.”

Lila looked offended. “That’s lazy.”

“It’s a slasher movie.”

“Does everyone die except the survivor?” Priya asked.

“Usually.”

“Then what’s the point of the tunnel?”

“To isolate us somewhere new.”

Silence filled the infirmary. Rain struck the roof.

Kon sat up slowly. “We know the ending.”

Tim looked at him.

“So we get ahead of it,” Kon said. “We follow enough of the story to use the scenes it expects, but we don’t give it the deaths.”

🐦‍⬛ 🔪 ☀️

The tunnel entrance was hidden beneath the recreation hall stage.

Sadie found the release lever behind a stack of painted scenery. A section of the floor lifted, revealing stone stairs descending into darkness.

Tim distributed flashlights from a supply closet. Their beams weren’t as strong as the equipment you’d lost, but they reached far enough to show a narrow brick passage below.

Kon tested the first step with one hand wrapped around the railing. You noticed and didn’t comment.

They descended in the order Tim assigned. You went first, followed by Sadie, Lila, Priya, and Kon. Tim brought up the rear. Nobody stood farther than an arm’s length from the next person.

The tunnel ran beneath the camp toward the lake. Water dripped between the bricks, and roots had broken through the ceiling in several places.

Sadie directed you at each intersection. “The left passage goes to the boathouse. The right should lead beyond the camp.”

“Should?” Lila asked.

“The memories don’t include me using it.”

Tim lifted his flashlight toward a white deer painted on the wall, its antlers pointing toward the right passage.

“We take the left,” he said.

“You just said it goes to the boathouse.”

“The film expects us to follow the marked route.”

The dinner bell rang behind you. Everyone turned. The stairs were gone. A brick wall sealed the passage where you’d entered.

“Keep moving,” Tim said.

The flashlights failed. You still held yours, but the bulb had died. Priya’s breath caught.

“Everyone speak,” Tim ordered.

“Here,” Lila said.

“I’m here,” Sadie added.

“Still here,” Kon said.

“Here,” Tim added from the rear.

Priya didn’t answer. You reached backward and found Sadie’s shoulder. Sadie caught Lila’s hand, but when Lila reached for Priya, she found empty air.

“Priya?”

Something scraped across the brick floor.

Priya screamed.

The flashlights came back on. The corridor had stretched during the darkness. Kon and Tim stood several yards behind the rest of you, with the Groundskeeper occupying the gap where Priya had been. One hand was wrapped around her ankle as he dragged her toward him while she clawed at the floor.

Tim struck him with the flashlight. The metal casing bent against the deer mask.

Kon moved around him and caught Priya beneath the arms. He planted both feet against a raised brick and pulled.

The Groundskeeper dragged her in the opposite direction. Priya screamed again.

You dropped beside her and drove your knife through the killer’s wrist. Black film spilled from the wound and wrapped around the blade.

He released her, and Kon fell backward with Priya against his chest.

The Groundskeeper swung a length of chain, catching Lila around the throat.

Sadie seized the chain with both hands. You struck the killer’s elbow while Tim attacked his knee.

Lila tore free. The Groundskeeper turned the mask toward you. The dark eyeholes reflected a bright rectangle.

A screen.

For an instant, you saw yourself standing alone on the dock at sunrise.

Then the killer struck you. Your shoulder hit the tunnel wall.

The world jumped.

You were running.

You didn’t remember starting. The tunnel blurred around you while someone screamed behind your shoulder. Kon held your hand, and Tim ran on your other side. Lila and Sadie were ahead.

Priya was gone.

“Stop!” you shouted.

Everyone skidded to a halt. The corridor behind you was empty.

Kon turned in a circle. “Where is she?”

Tim’s face had gone white. “The film cut the scene.”

“She was beside me,” Kon said. “I had her.”

“You had her before the cut.”

Kon started back.

Tim caught his jacket. “The corridor changed.”

“We can’t leave her.”

“We won’t find her by running into the next scene without understanding it.”

A metal tray clattered somewhere ahead. Light shone beneath a door at the end of the passage.

Sadie stared at it. “That wasn’t there before.”

Tim released Kon. “The skeptic finds proof too late.”

The door opened into a laboratory. Photographs covered the walls, each showing a different group at Camp Hollow Pines. Their clothing changed with the decades, but the buildings and lake remained identical.

Every photograph ended with one survivor.

Rows of film canisters filled the tables.

Priya stood in the center of the room with blood covering her hands. She held an open canister containing Owen’s loop.

“I found them,” she said.

The Groundskeeper’s hook emerged through her chest. Lila screamed. The killer lifted Priya from the floor and flung her against the wall.

Tim charged. The hook caught his jacket and threw him across the table. Film canisters scattered.

You drove your shoulder into the Groundskeeper’s side, forcing him away from Priya despite the pain tearing through your injured arm.

Kon swung the chain. It caught around the antlers. He pulled with his entire body, snapping the killer’s head sideways.

The mask cracked against the wall, and a strip of blank film fluttered through the split.

The lights failed.

When they returned, the Groundskeeper and Priya were gone. Her canister sat beside Owen’s.

Kon released the chain. His hands shook as he stared at the reel. “We keep failing.”

Tim pushed himself upright. “We’re learning.”

“They’re dying.”

“They’re being stored.”

“Do you know how to get them out?”

“Not yet.”

Kon kicked the nearest table. Pain flashed across his face, and he grabbed his foot. Tim stared at him.

“I know,” Kon snapped. “Badly designed.”

You crouched to check his ankle while Tim examined the photographs.

“One survivor in every cycle,” he said. “Everyone else remains inside the archive.”

Sadie moved closer to the wall. “Are those real people?”

“I think so.”

“How long have they been trapped?”

“The earliest date is 1967.”

Lila covered her mouth. Tim picked up the most recent photograph. A woman stood at the camp gate, covered in blood, while several bodies lay behind her.

Beneath the photograph, someone had written THE FINAL GIRL RETURNS HOME.

Another sentence covered the back: THE REST REMAIN WHERE THE STORY NEEDS THEM.

You looked toward the canisters. “Completing the film only releases me.”

“Yes.”

“What happens if we destroy it?”

“We might release everyone. We might destroy what remains of them.”

Kon lowered his hand from your shoulder. “There has to be another option.”

Tim searched the room.

The projector from beneath the recreation hall stood against the far wall, although none of you had carried it into the tunnel. The current reel passed through the machine. The strip disappeared into a narrow channel in the wall. Sadie recognized the system from the memories the film had given her: the channel carried footage from the archive’s editing projector to a larger projector in the booth above the stage. A small freight lift beside the shelves had once been used to send film canisters up to the operator.

Beside the machine sat a small editing block, a razor, and a bottle of film cement. You slipped the razor into your pocket while Tim examined the film.

Tim touched the edge of the strip.

The image projected against the wall changed. He entered the room alone. The Groundskeeper appeared behind him, and a blade passed through Tim’s back. The image vanished.

“That’s your death,” you said.

“The investigator discovers the truth.”

Kon stepped between Tim and the projector. “Then you’re finished investigating.”

“The role won’t disappear because I stop.”

“We can lock you in another room.”

“The story controls the rooms.”

“Then I stay beside you.”

“It can cut people out of scenes.”

Kon grabbed the front of Tim’s jacket. “I’m not letting it kill you because some card says that’s what happens next.”

Tim caught both of his wrists. “We aren’t giving it any of the deaths. It only needs to believe we did.”

Sadie looked between them. “You’re going to fake your deaths inside a movie that controls reality?”

“I want to exploit its editing.” Tim pointed toward the projector. “It doesn’t observe continuously. It constructs scenes around expected events. When the lights go out or the image cuts, it changes locations and removes people. If the film believes someone has completed their role, it may stop watching them.”

“You think dead characters can move outside the story,” you said.

“I think the story stops accounting for them.”

Kon glanced toward the projected image. “How do we convince it?”

Tim looked at the editing tools. “By giving it the shot it expects.”

Lila refused to leave the archive. It took Sadie ten minutes to convince her that staying beside Priya’s reel wouldn’t bring her back. Even then, Lila carried the metal reel case beneath her jacket as though she could protect it from the film.

Tim used supplies from the laboratory to prepare. The Groundskeeper was meant to kill him after he discovered the archive. The projected sequence showed the blade entering from behind, passing through his left side before he collapsed across the editing table.

Tim found a thin steel plate beneath the projector and strapped it beneath his jacket with strips torn from a canvas film bag. He found a packet of stage blood among the practical-effects supplies, sealed it inside a smaller plastic pouch, and taped it over the plate. If the Groundskeeper’s knife lodged in the metal, the impact would burst the pouch and give the film the wound it expected.

“It won’t stop the full impact,” you said.

“It only needs to redirect the blade.”

“It could still break your ribs.”

“I know.”

Kon stood across the room with his arms folded. “You don’t get to tell me not to hide injuries after planning this.”

“I’m not hiding anything.”

“You’re scheduling it.”

Tim tightened the final knot. “The film won’t accept an injury-free death.”

Kon looked toward you. “Help me argue.”

“He’s right about the scene.”

“Betrayal.”

“You’re next.”

“That isn’t comforting.”

Kon’s intended death took place at the boathouse. The projected sequence showed him stepping between you and the Groundskeeper before a boat hook entered beneath his ribs.

Tim dismantled one of the laboratory shelves and removed a curved metal brace. With enough padding beneath Kon’s sweatshirt, it might redirect the point. Tim taped a second blood packet over the brace, positioning it where the hook was meant to strike. 

Might was doing a lot of work. The uncertainty remained unacceptable, but there wasn’t a safer plan.

Kon watched you secure the brace against his side. “Have you done this before?”

“Faked being impaled?”

“Put armor on someone who’s never needed it.”

You tightened the strap. “You wore armor during training.”

“For aesthetics.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Usually.”

His humor faded. You placed both hands against his chest. His heart beat quickly beneath your palms.

Kon covered one of your hands. “I don’t like that you can feel it.”

“Your heartbeat?”

“How scared I am.”

“We could always tell.”

“Not this easily.”

You leaned up and kissed him. He held you carefully, one arm around your waist and the other braced against the table.

“You don’t have to pretend you aren’t afraid,” you said.

“I know.”

“You’ll forget that in a few minutes.”

“Probably.”

“When the hook hits, you fall. Don’t try to overpower him.”

“I fall.”

“You wait for the scene to cut.”

“I wait.”

“You check the injury before you move.”

Kon glanced at Tim. “Do I need to let him check?”

“Yes,” you and Tim said together.

Kon sighed. “This relationship is oppressive.”

Sadie led Lila into the service corridor with the first crate of archived reels. Their task was to reach the projection booth, use the old film lift to retrieve the remaining canisters, and run each loop backward once the Groundskeeper entered the final scene.

Tim believed running the loops backward through the booth projector might return each victim to the moment before death. It was the only available plan that offered everyone a chance.

The dinner bell rang three times. The laboratory lights dimmed.

Tim moved behind the editing table while you and Kon entered the passage leading to the lake.

“See you after your murder,” Kon called.

Tim looked up from the film. “Try to make yours convincing.”

“I’m a natural performer.”

“You were banned from improv night.”

“That was political.”

The door closed between you.

🐦‍⬛ 🔪 ☀️

The camp had changed by the time you emerged from the tunnel. The storm had vanished, leaving moonlight across the lake and the cabin doors standing open with lights burning inside. There were no bodies, bloodstains, or signs of the earlier attacks as Camp Hollow Pines waited in perfect silence for the final sequence.

Kon walked beside you toward the boathouse with one hand pressed against the brace.

“How are your ribs?”

“Attached.”

“Your head?”

“Also attached.”

“Dizzy?”

“A little.”

You stopped. Kon turned toward you.

“If you’re dizzy, we adjust the plan.”

“The scene is already starting.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do.” He took your hand. “Tim’s waiting for his cue. Lila and Sadie are in position. If we stop now, the film rearranges everything again.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know I can make it to the boathouse.”

The certainty in his voice wasn’t the careless confidence he usually carried into a fight. He had measured the distance against pain, fatigue, and the limits of a body he still didn’t understand.

You nodded. “Tell me if that changes.”

“I will.”

“Kon.”

“I will.”

He kissed your forehead just before the bell rang again.

A scream came from the direction of the archive.

Tim.

Every instinct told you to turn back.

Kon’s grip tightened. “He knows what he’s doing.”

“He says that every time he does something terrible.”

“I know.”

A crash echoed across the camp as the boathouse lights came on.

The Groundskeeper stood at the end of the dock with the boat hook in one hand. Kon stepped in front of you.

The film pulled at your body. Fear arrived too quickly, sharp and artificial, filling your lungs until breathing became difficult. Your knees threatened to buckle. The story was forcing you into the survivor’s role, transforming trained reflexes into helplessness because that was what the scene expected.

You fought it.

Kon looked over his shoulder. His face was pale, but his eyes were his own. “Stay behind me,” he said.

The words belonged to the script, but the small movement of his hand didn’t: two fingers pressed briefly against his thigh.

Wait.

The Groundskeeper advanced. Kon grabbed the axe from the dock. He swung too high, allowing the killer to block it with the hook and strike him across the face.

Kon fell against the railing. Blood ran from his lip. He pushed himself upright and attacked again, moving more carefully this time. He used the leverage Tim had shown him, kept his center of gravity low, and refused to commit more force than he could control.

He held his own for several seconds before the Groundskeeper changed the scene and the lights flickered.

Kon was suddenly on his knees. The hook rested against his side.

You lunged, but the story locked your muscles before you could reach him.

The Groundskeeper drove the hook forward. Metal screamed against metal beneath Kon’s sweatshirt. The impact lifted him from the dock. His breath left him. Blood spread across the red fabric.

You screamed his name. This time, the sound belonged to you.

The Groundskeeper pulled the hook free. Kon fell onto the dock. His eyes found yours before they closed.

The story released your body. You dropped beside him and pressed both hands against his side. Blood coated your palms, warmer and more plentiful than the hidden packet should have produced. 

“Kon.”

He didn’t respond. You lowered your face beside his mouth. His breath touched your cheek, shallow but present.

The lights flickered.

The scene cut.

You stood alone inside the boathouse. Kon’s body was gone.

A white card lay on the floor. THE PROTECTOR DIES FOR THE SURVIVOR.

Your hands were still covered in his blood.

The Groundskeeper waited outside.

You ran. 

The final chase carried you through every location the film had established. You crossed the dining lodge while the lights shattered behind you, climbed through the infirmary window as the killer broke through the door, and reached Cabin Two with the axe striking the porch at your heels.

The false photographs had been scattered across the bed. In one, you stood alone. Tim and Kon had been erased. You tore the photograph in half.

The Groundskeeper’s axe split the cabin door.

You climbed through the rear window and hit the ground running. Every path returned you to the recreation hall.

The film wanted its climax.

You gave it one.

The doors opened before you touched them.

Rows of folding chairs filled the hall. Shadowed figures occupied every seat, their faces pale and indistinct beneath the projector’s light. The audience had been assembled from every person the film had trapped.

The camp moved across the stage curtain in light from the projection booth. At the edge of the stage, Tim lay collapsed over the editing table, the handle of the Groundskeeper’s knife protruding from his back.

You forced yourself not to look too closely.

The Groundskeeper entered behind you.

The audience began to applaud.

You climbed onto the stage. The film had arranged the weapons with deliberate care: an axe near the footlights, a flare gun beside the scenery, and a coil of rope hanging from the rafters.

Every final confrontation the film had collected was waiting for you to repeat it.

The Groundskeeper swung.

You ducked beneath the axe and drove your elbow into his ribs. The impact sent pain through your injured shoulder, but you followed with a kick to his knee.

He staggered.

You seized the flare gun. It clicked empty. The audience laughed.

“You’re getting predictable,” you said.

The Groundskeeper rushed you.

You threw the gun at his face. When he raised one arm to block it, you caught the edge of the mask and pulled.

The antlers cut your palms. The straps snapped. The mask came away.

There was no face beneath it, only strips of blank film twisting inside the collar of the coat in a rough imitation of a head, with empty frames fluttering where eyes should have been.

The audience fell silent.

“You’re nobody,” you said.

The film stopped. The projected image froze.

Behind the Groundskeeper, Tim sat up. He reached behind himself, wrenched the knife free from the steel plate beneath his jacket, and threw it aside.

The Groundskeeper turned just as Kon hit him with a chair hard enough to break the wood across his back.

Kon nearly followed it to the floor. One arm stayed wrapped around his injured side, but he managed to remain upright. His sweatshirt had been cut open along one side, and the tight makeshift bandage around his ribs could only have been Tim’s work. Blood was already soaking through the fabric.

“You were supposed to wait,” Tim said.

Kon grabbed another chair. “You were supposed to be dead.”

“I was convincing.”

“You looked terrible.”

“I’d been stabbed.”

“Fake stabbed.”

The Groundskeeper struck Kon across the stage. He landed hard and rolled.

You caught the killer’s coat from behind while Tim swept his legs. Together, the three of you forced him to the floor.

Black film spilled across the boards and wrapped around Tim’s ankle. You cut through it with the razor from the editing room. The severed strip writhed against the stage.

“Projector!” Tim shouted.

Above the stage, the hidden booth brightened. Lila appeared behind the glass with Sadie beside her, feeding a reel backward through the machine.

The audience flickered.

Priya appeared across two seats in the aisle, gasping as the wound in her chest closed in reverse. Owen materialized near the rear doors while blood pulled itself from the floor and returned to his body. Mateo dropped onto the stage.

The film around the Groundskeeper tightened. He threw you backward.

Tim caught your arm before you fell from the platform. Kon wrapped both arms around the killer’s waist.

The Groundskeeper drove an elbow into his injured ribs.

Kon’s face twisted, but he didn’t release him. “I could use some help,” he said through his teeth.

You seized the coat. Tim pulled the rope from the rafters and looped it around the Groundskeeper’s arms.

Together, you dragged him toward the projected screen.

The image showed the ending waiting to complete itself: you standing alone at the camp gate while the sun rose behind you.

The Groundskeeper fought harder as he neared it.

The floor shifted beneath you. Cabin walls appeared around the stage. The lake opened beneath the orchestra pit, and trees broke through the ceiling.

The story tried to continue.

Tim tightened the rope. “Lila, faster!”

“I’m trying!”

More people emerged among the audience as the older reels ran backward. Victims in clothing from several different decades woke screaming beneath the theater lights.

The projector began to overheat. Smoke filled the booth. Sadie reached for another canister.

The Groundskeeper tore one arm free. His hand closed around Kon’s throat. Kon struck his wrist, but the killer lifted him from the floor. For one terrible second, Kon’s feet hung above the stage. His face reddened. He couldn’t breathe.

You drove the deer mask into the moving film beneath the killer’s collar. The broken antlers caught in the twisting strips.

Tim seized the loose end and pulled. The Groundskeeper’s head unraveled. Film streamed across the stage and into the projector beam.

The hall filled with white light.

Kon fell.

You caught him beneath the arms, but his weight carried both of you to the floor. He dragged in a ragged breath.

Tim reached you and pressed his fingers against Kon’s throat. “Pulse is strong.”

Kon coughed. “I liked it better when I had invulnerable skin.”

The projector screamed as fire climbed the film. Lila struck the booth window with a chair, shattering the glass before she and Sadie abandoned the machine and hurried down the narrow stairs beside it.

“Everyone out!” Tim shouted.

The audience surged toward the doors. Former victims stumbled into the camp beyond the recreation hall, some still wearing blood from deaths that had happened decades apart. Priya supported Mateo while Lila caught Owen by the arm and shoved him toward the exit.

The Groundskeeper rose again. His head had become a burning knot of film.

Tim grabbed Kon’s arm. “Can you stand?”

“With enthusiasm.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

Kon tried, but his knees buckled. You took one side while Tim supported the other, and the three of you moved toward the exit.

The burning killer stepped between you and the doors.

Kon looked at the ceiling. The old lighting rig hung above the stage, held by a fraying rope.

He gestured with his head. “Cut that.”

You followed his gaze. Tim took more of Kon’s weight while you pulled the razor from your pocket and threw it. It sliced through the rope. The rig dropped. Metal struck the Groundskeeper and drove him through the stage.

Fire erupted beneath the boards. The recreation hall collapsed around him.

You reached the doors as the roof began to fall.

Outside, people ran toward the camp gate. The sun rose too quickly over the trees, turning the sky red.

A title appeared above the road. THE SURVIVOR RETURNS HOME.

Everyone except you vanished. The camp became silent. Tim’s arm disappeared from around your shoulders. Kon’s weight vanished from your other side.

You stood alone beneath the sign.

The road waited. One step would complete the story.

You turned around.

The camp had become a flat image behind you. Tim and Kon were visible on the other side, frozen inside the frame. Tim’s hand remained outstretched. Kon’s mouth was open around your name.

You walked back. The road stretched beneath your feet, resisting every step. Wind pushed against your body. The title above the gate flickered.

THE SURVIVOR RETURNS HOME.

“I’m not the survivor,” you said.

The trees bent toward you. The words changed.

THE SURVIVOR FACES HIM ALONE.

“He’s dead.”

The frame began closing around Tim and Kon. You reached through it. Your hand found Tim’s. His fingers closed around yours.

The film burned along your arm.

Kon moved. He caught Tim around the waist and pulled.

The three of you fell through the screen together.

The camp shattered.

You landed on the floor of the Monarch Theater.

The projector exploded above you.

You were still wearing the clothes the film had given you. Tim’s canvas jacket was torn and streaked with blood, Kon’s red sweatshirt hung open around the bandage at his ribs, and your own clothes carried every mark left by the camp. None of your armor or equipment had returned with you.

Kon moved before anyone else, his speed and strength returning the instant the camp released him. His body rose from the floor in a blur, and he crossed the auditorium and caught the burning machine with one hand before it could strike the trapped students, metal crumpling around his fingers.

The full force of his restored senses hit a second later. He dropped the projector. Both hands flew to his ears.

You reached him as he sank to his knees. “Kon?”

“Too loud.” His voice trembled.

Tim climbed over a broken row of seats and crouched beside him. “Focus on us.”

“I can hear everything.”

“The theater first.”

Kon shut his eyes. “The fire in the booth. Five heartbeats behind you. Pipes under the street. Cars outside.”

“Our heartbeats,” Tim said.

Kon’s hand found Tim’s chest. Tim covered it. You placed Kon’s other hand against your ribs. His breathing began to slow.

“Yours,” he whispered.

“We’re here.”

Kon opened his eyes. His breathing steadied as he narrowed his attention to the theater and the people inside it.

His gaze lifted toward the projection booth. “Our gear’s upstairs.”

Tim followed his gaze. Through the smoke, you could make out three dark bundles scattered across the projection booth floor where the machine had stood: his cape and armor, Kon’s uniform, and everything the film had stripped from you when the countdown ended.

“Get it before the doors open,” Tim said.

Kon flew up to the projection booth, gathered the equipment, and carried it to the ruined balcony. He wedged the bundles behind a collapsed section of wall before any of the students began to stir.

The ease of the movement seemed to register only after he returned. He stopped in front of you, and his expression broke.

You reached for him. Kon caught you and Tim and pulled both of you against his chest hard enough to leave no space between you.

Tim made an offended sound into Kon’s shoulder. “You’re crushing us.”

“I’m not.”

“You are slightly crushing us,” you said.

Kon loosened his hold by a fraction. “I can feel myself again.”

Tim’s arms settled around his waist. “That doesn’t mean you should test it on us.”

“I missed you.”

“We were gone for approximately twelve seconds.”

“I saw Tim lying there with a knife in his back,” Kon said, voice going tight, “and then I had to watch you face the Groundskeeper alone right after.”

Tim went still for half a beat. “You knew my part was staged.”

“I knew it was staged,” Kon said immediately. “That doesn’t make it stop happening in my head.”

You buried your face against his neck. Kon held both of you closer for another moment before finally letting you both go.

Lila coughed behind you.

The three of you separated and turned. All five missing students lay across the auditorium floor. Mateo was alive. Owen had both hands pressed over a chest that no longer held a wound. Priya stared at the place where the hook had entered her body.

More people had escaped the old reels, but they hadn’t followed you into the theater.

Tim looked toward the burning screen. “The earlier victims were part of the archive. The film may have released them somewhere else.”

Sirens approached outside.

Tim’s gaze shifted to the projection booth, where the last of the film curled into ash.

“Next time,” Kon said, “we investigate the cursed object after Clark throws it into the sun.”

“You activated it,” Tim reminded him.

“The projector activated itself.”

“You looked directly at the screen.”

“So did you.”

“I looked at the mechanism.”

“You watched the countdown.”

“For evidence.”

“You watched a cursed countdown for evidence.”

You touched Tim’s bruised cheek. “He has a point.”

“This is becoming a hostile work environment.”

Kon kissed him before he could continue. Tim resisted for less than a second.

You were still inside an active crime scene with five traumatized civilians behind you, an electrical fire above you, and police forcing open the front doors.

It wasn’t an ideal place for a reunion.

Kon pulled you into the kiss anyway.

🐦‍⬛ 🔪 ☀️

Three days later, he remained offended by stairs.

“You don’t need to use them,” Tim said.

Kon climbed the last step into the apartment and glared at him. “That isn’t the point.”

“What is the point?”

“They’re inefficient.”

“You’ve used stairs before.”

“I didn’t understand how much they demanded from people.”

You closed the apartment door behind them. “You walked up one flight.”

“My powerless body had bruised ribs.”

“Your current body doesn’t.”

“The memory remains.”

Tim set the takeout containers on the kitchen counter. “You spent your entire life believing stairs were decorative?”

“I understood the concept.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

Kon dropped onto the couch.

He had recovered before the police entered the theater, but the film had left traces none of your medical scans could identify. Tim still woke with pain beneath his ribs where the blade had struck the steel plate. Your shoulder ached whenever you lifted your arm. Kon occasionally reached for the place where the boat hook had entered, though no bruise remained.

The missing students had been released from the hospital that morning.

The other victims were still being located. Some had reappeared in abandoned theaters across Gotham. Others had emerged in buildings converted decades ago into stores, apartments, and parking garages. A woman who disappeared in 1974 had woken inside a laundromat built over the cinema where she had last been seen.

Tim had spent most of the afternoon coordinating searches through old property records.

Kon had spent most of it following Tim around the Cave until Bruce ordered all three of you home.

You sat beside him. He lifted your legs across his lap and ran one hand along your shin.

Tim distributed the food before settling on Kon’s other side.

For several minutes, the apartment remained quiet.

Kon opened his container, stared at it for a moment, then closed it again. “I keep thinking about the van.”

Tim paused with his chopsticks halfway to his mouth. “Owen?”

Kon nodded.

“I knew I wasn’t strong, but some part of me still expected strength to arrive when I needed it. I thought if I pulled hard enough, I’d become myself again.”

“You were yourself,” you said.

“I was missing half of everything I know how to do.”

“That isn’t half of who you are.”

Kon looked down at his hands.

Tim set his food aside.

“You adjusted,” he said. “You learned to fight without powers in less than a day. You let us treat your injuries even though you hated it. You followed the plan when every instinct told you not to.”

“I complained constantly.”

“That was reassuringly normal.”

Kon leaned his head against the back of the couch.

“I don’t think I was afraid of being human,” he said. “I was afraid that I didn’t know how.”

You shifted closer. “Humans don’t know how either.”

“That explains a lot.”

“We mostly guess,” Tim said.

“You make spreadsheets.”

“I make informed guesses.”

“You made a chart ranking my concussion symptoms.”

“It was useful.”

“You included irritability as though that isn’t part of my personality.”

“It increased by fourteen percent.”

Kon stared at him. “How did you calculate that?”

“I established a baseline.”

You took the container from Tim before Kon could throw it. “He also made one for me.”

Kon looked delighted. “Can I see it?”

“No.”

Tim reached across Kon to take the food back. You held it out of reach.

Kon wrapped one arm around your waist and pulled you into his lap. Tim used the opening to retrieve the container.

The movement jostled all three of you together.

Kon’s laughter faded as his arms tightened around you, and Tim’s expression softened.

Kon looked from you to him. “I know you were there.”

“In the camp?” you asked.

“The whole time. I know I wasn’t alone. But every time I couldn’t hear you, it felt like you’d stopped existing.”

Tim moved closer.

“You’re going to hear us for the rest of the night,” he said. “I have six calls to make, and someone keeps changing the labels on my case files.”

“That’s Jason.”

“It’s always Jason.”

You rested your head against Kon’s shoulder. “I’ll make enough noise to be irritating.”

“You already do,” Tim said.

You kicked his ankle. Kon smiled.

The television across the room turned on, and all three of you froze.

A black screen filled with static.

Tim reached beneath the coffee table for the emergency EMP while Kon moved in front of both of you. Your hand found the collapsible baton you had started keeping between the couch cushions three days ago.

The static cleared, revealing a local news anchor. “—continuing coverage of the Monarch Theater disappearances—”

Kon exhaled as Tim lowered the EMP. You kept the baton open until Kon reached for the remote and switched off the television, leaving the screen dark.

Nothing appeared behind it.

No forest road. No countdown. No masked figure waiting for the next scene.

Kon settled back against the couch and drew both of you closer.

This time, when the screen went dark, it stayed dark.