Two Days Later
New York City, New York - 7:45 AM EST
EMILY
The morning light crept into the penthouse, filtering through the tall glass windows that overlooked the bustling streets of New York City. Emily sat at the edge of her bed, staring at the view as her phone buzzed repeatedly on the nightstand behind her. She knew what it was-emails, meeting reminders, texts from coworkers. The never-ending chaos of her life was waiting, yet she couldn't bring herself to look away from the streaks of gold and gray spreading across the Manhattan skyline.
She'd been up since 5:00 AM, as usual, her mind refusing to let her sleep past the first rays of dawn. Her morning routine was second nature now: hot yoga at 6:00, a green smoothie she barely enjoyed at 6:30, and now here she was, freshly showered, hair sleek and styled, sitting in her spotless bedroom as if waiting for some cosmic permission to start her day.
Emily's apartment was as meticulously curated as her schedule. Everything had its place, from the pristine cream duvet folded at a precise angle on her bed to the carefully arranged shelf of designer handbags that lined one wall like trophies. It was the kind of life Emily had always dreamed of-polished, professional, and purposeful. But as she sat there, the distant hum of honking horns and bustling pedestrians filling the air, she felt... hollow.
Her phone buzzed again. This time, it was a call. Emily glanced over her shoulder at the screen, the name "Jayce" lighting up in bold letters. She sighed, rolling her eyes as she reached for it, swiping the call away without hesitation.
They had gone out two nights ago. She'd accepted his offer-not because she was interested, but because she wanted to feel something, anything, other than the lingering numbness that had followed her ever since she stepped off Blackwood Mountain. Jayce was charming enough, tall and handsome in that polished, Wall Street kind of way, but he didn't light a spark in her. No one did anymore.
Sure, they'd had fun. Drinks, laughter, even a kiss at the end of the night. But it had been fleeting, empty. By the time she got back to her apartment, she'd already forgotten most of what he'd said. She just wasn't interested, not in him, not in anyone.
Her phone buzzed again, this time with a text from Jayce:
"Had a great time the other night. Let's grab dinner soon?"
Emily scoffed, setting the phone face down on the nightstand. Dinner. Sure. Why not? Another evening of forced smiles and surface-level conversation sounded just about as thrilling as her third cup of coffee.
She stood, crossing the room to her walk-in closet. The space was just as pristine as the rest of her apartment, rows of designer clothing neatly hung and color-coordinated. Emily ran her fingers along the fabric of a silk blouse, her thoughts drifting.
She didn't know why she was like this now-restless, detached, uninterested in anything that didn't involve work or her meticulously maintained routine. It wasn't like her.
Emily had always been the center of attention, the one who commanded the room, who knew exactly what she wanted and how to get it. She'd built herself up from the snarky, small-town girl to the powerhouse she was today. But lately, it felt like that version of herself was slipping away, replaced by someone she barely recognized.
The nightmares hadn't helped. They had gotten quieter over the years, sure, but they were still there, lurking just beneath the surface. Blackwood Mountain. The fire tower. The Wendigo. God, the Wendigo.
Her reflection stared back at her from the full-length mirror in the corner of the closet, her dark eyes scanning the smooth lines of her features. Perfect makeup. Perfect hair. Perfect everything. But no matter how much she perfected the image, she couldn't shake the memories.
It wasn't just the mountain. It was everything that came after. The rumors. The whispers. The way people looked at her when she came back home, battered and bruised, barely able to walk. Her family had tried to understand, but how could they? How could anyone?
They hadn't believed her, not really. They'd nodded along when she told them about the Wendigo, about the nightmare she'd lived through. But she could see it in their eyes-the doubt, the discomfort. They thought she was exaggerating or delusional or both.
And maybe she was. Sometimes, Emily doubted herself. Had it all been real? The claws, the screams, the shadows in the dark? Or had she imagined it, her mind breaking under the weight of fear and isolation?
Her phone buzzed again, snapping her out of her thoughts. This time, it was an email from work, reminding her of a 9:00 AM meeting. Emily sighed, pulling a crisp white blouse from the rack and slipping it on. She buttoned it up slowly, her hands steady despite the storm of emotions swirling inside her.
As she smoothed down the fabric, her gaze drifted back to the mirror. She looked every bit the part of the successful marketing executive she had worked so hard to become. But behind the polished exterior was a woman who still hadn't figured out how to let go of the past.
"Get it together," she muttered to herself, straightening her collar.
She grabbed her phone, her keys, and her bag, slipping on a pair of black stilettos that clicked against the hardwood floor as she made her way out the door.
The city greeted her with its usual chaos, the streets alive with the sound of rushing cars and hurried footsteps. Emily blended into the crowd effortlessly, her heels clicking a steady rhythm as she walked toward her office building.
As she pushed through the revolving doors and stepped into the sleek, modern lobby, she forced a smile, nodding politely to the receptionist. She had perfected the art of masking her emotions, of hiding the cracks beneath her polished surface.
But deep down, Emily knew the cracks were still there, waiting to split open when she least expected it.
Emily sat at her small desk in the corner of the bustling marketing office, the sound of keyboards clicking and voices on phone calls surrounding her like white noise. She was hunched over her laptop, tweaking a last-minute report for her supervisor, her mind half-focused on the task at hand.
The internship was competitive, one of the most sought-after programs in the country, and landing it had been a massive victory. But being here, in the middle of Manhattan, juggling deadlines and constantly trying to prove herself, was exhausting. Emily thrived under pressure-she always had-but even she couldn't deny the weight of it all.
Still, she didn't let it show. She kept her head high, her posture straight, and her demeanor polished. No one in this office could know how much she was struggling beneath the surface.
She had been zoning out, scrolling through some data on a campaign, when the thought of Josh hit her again like a slap to the face.
Josh Washington released from the facility.
The words had stared back at her from her phone screen two days ago, throwing her into a spiral she'd been trying to ignore ever since.
Her hands hovered over the keyboard as the thoughts began creeping in again. How the hell was he out already? Three years didn't seem like enough for everything he'd done. Sure, they had called it "temporary insanity," but insanity or not, the things he'd done to her and the others still haunted her.
And yet... there was a flicker of something else deep in her gut. Guilt.
It wasn't something Emily wanted to admit to herself, but it was there, lurking beneath the surface. Josh's breakdown, his twisted game-it all traced back to the prank. Her prank.
She shook her head, forcing herself to refocus on her screen. Now wasn't the time to go down that rabbit hole. She had an internship to keep and a report due in less than twenty minutes.
Her stomach churned as she glanced at the clock on her computer. 10:15. Time was running out, but instead of typing, she leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling, her mind pulling her back to the moment she'd read the news.
Josh's release had dredged up memories she had spent years trying to bury. The fire tower, the screams, the cold bite of the mountain air-it was all there, just beneath the surface. And of course, the moment she'd realized Josh had been behind it all, that he'd orchestrated their nightmare.
But it wasn't just Josh's actions that haunted her. It was the way she'd felt when she found out-betrayed, yes, but also hollow. She couldn't shake the memory of his face that night, the way he looked so distraught and full of grief.
She gritted her teeth and looked back down at her laptop, forcing her fingers to move across the keyboard. She needed to finish this report. She needed to keep her head down and focus. Josh wasn't her problem anymore.
But even as she worked, the memories crept in.
Her parents had been supportive after the mountain-or at least, they'd tried to be. They had flown to Canada from their business trip as soon as they heard, arriving at the hospital in a flurry of panic and overbearing questions.
Emily had been in a fragile state, bruised, battered, and emotionally shattered. Her father, a reserved man who rarely showed emotion, had been visibly shaken, pacing the hospital room with his hands in his pockets while her mother fussed over her.
"What were you thinking going up there in the first place?" her father had said, his voice tight with restrained anger. "You could've died, Emily."
Her mother had cut him off with a sharp look, kneeling by Emily's bedside and brushing the hair back from her face. "Are you okay? Baby, tell me everything-what happened up there? Did someone hurt you?"
Emily had stared at her mother, trying to form words, but everything she said sounded insane. She couldn't tell them about the Wendigos-about the creatures that had hunted them in the dark. She couldn't explain what it felt like to see those clawed hands reaching for her, to feel her own life slipping away.
She'd kept the story simple, just like the others had.
"It was... someone we knew," she'd said haltingly. "Josh. He... he wasn't well. He played some kind of sick game with us. That's all."
Her father had been skeptical, of course. He always was. "Sick game? That's all you're going to give us?"
"Just let it go, Elias," her mother had snapped, her voice sharp.
But her father couldn't let it go. Over the years, he'd brought it up time and time again, questioning her choices, her judgment. And though her mother tried to shield her from it, Emily could feel the strain in their relationship.
Even now, sitting at her desk in the middle of Manhattan, Emily could feel that weight. The way her father's words lingered, the way her mother's worry followed her. She was the daughter who had gone up that mountain and come back changed-scarred, broken, but alive.
The sound of someone clearing their throat snapped Emily out of her thoughts. She looked up to see her supervisor standing by her desk, a clipboard in hand.
"Emily, are you ready for the meeting? We're starting in five," he said, his tone polite but firm.
She straightened in her chair, nodding quickly. "Yes, I just finished the final report. I'll bring it in."
Her supervisor gave a curt nod and walked away, leaving Emily alone again.
She exhaled, running a hand through her perfectly styled hair. There wasn't time to dwell on Josh or the mountain or any of it. She had a job to do, and she wasn't about to let her past derail her future.
Grabbing her laptop and the printed report, she stood and made her way to the conference room, her heels clicking sharply against the floor.
But even as she walked, her thoughts lingered on Josh. On the way he had smirked at her in the fire tower, on the way his laughter had echoed in her ears as she fell.
She pushed the memories down, locking them away where they couldn't touch her.
For now, at least, she had to focus on the present. The past could wait.
Chicago, Illinois - 8:07 AM CST
MIKE
Mike had always been good at shaking things off.
That was his whole thing, right? The easygoing, wisecracking guy. The dude who could roll with the punches and come out on the other side still smirking. He had always been the one to take the hits-literally and figuratively-and keep moving forward.
But this?
This wasn't something he could just shake off.
Josh was out.
Mike leaned against the counter, his fingers drumming against the cool granite surface as his mind spiraled through everything he had just learned. His coffee sat untouched beside him, long gone cold. He barely noticed.
He wasn't mad.
Or, at least, he didn't think he was.
Three years ago, if someone had told him that one day he'd hear about Josh Washington walking around free and not immediately want to punch a hole through a wall, he would've laughed in their face.
Because three years ago, he had thought Josh was a monster.
Back then, sitting in that basement, watching Jess get dragged away into the dark-listening to her scream his name-he had blamed Josh. Hated him. He had stormed through that mountain, shotgun in hand, ready to put an end to whatever sick game Josh was playing.
And then the ugly truth had come out.
The wendigo.
Mike closed his eyes briefly, and just like that, the memories crashed over him.
The mines. The hunt for Josh with Matt, Kida and Sam in tow. Sam leading the charge like she always did. Josh-wide-eyed, babbling, barely clinging to reality.
And Hannah.
Jesus.
Mike's grip on the counter tightened as the image flickered across his mind-Hannah. Or what was left of her.
She had been a nightmare made flesh, her body twisted and mangled into something unnatural, something wrong. But it was her. He knew it the second he saw the tattoo on her arm, the delicate little butterfly that had once meant something to her. A permanent mark of a girl who had loved too much and been destroyed because of it.
And Josh had screamed for her.
Not in fear. Not in horror.
In recognition.
In grief.
He had called her name like he still saw his sister in that thing. Like she wasn't already gone.
And maybe she wasn't-not completely.
Mike still didn't know if that made it better or worse.
His stomach turned as another memory surfaced-Hannah in the lodge, during the final escape. A glimpse, just a flicker in the chaos. He had seen her. He knew he had.
And sometimes, late at night when he let his mind wander too far, he wondered if Hannah had seen him, too.
If she had recognized him.
If, for even a second, there had been some small part of her that still remembered who they were.
Mike let out a slow breath, shaking the thought away.
The past was the past. Nothing could change what happened to Hannah and Beth.
But now Josh was back. Walking around, breathing the same air as everyone else, living a life that his sisters never got to have.
And Mike didn't know what the hell to do with that.
Because he wasn't angry-not anymore. Not really.
Josh had lost everything. His family, his sanity, his freedom. It was fucked up, but Mike understood why he snapped. Why he wanted to hurt the people he blamed for his sisters' deaths. Hell, if the roles were reversed, if it had been Jess, if she had died because of some cruel, careless joke-
Mike didn't even want to finish the thought.
He got it.
But that didn't mean Josh's actions were justified.
It didn't erase the fact that he had put them through hell. That he had locked Sam in that basement and chased her with a gas tank. That he had tied Ashley and Chris to chairs and forced them to make a choice that no one should ever have to make. That he had tormented them all, broken them, damn near killed them.
And it sure as hell didn't erase the fact that Jess had suffered the worst of all.
Mike raked a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.
He had spent three years trying to help Jess heal from what happened to her that night. The PTSD, the trauma, the nightmares that never really went away. And now? Now he was going to have to tell her that Josh-the guy who had started everything-was out.
His stomach clenched at the thought.
Because Mike knew Jess.
She would take this personally. She would spiral. She would go straight to that dark place in her mind, the one she had barely clawed her way out of, the one where the shadows of that mountain still lived.
And he didn't know if he could bring her back this time.
Mike sighed, rubbing a hand down his face.
He should probably check the news. See what bullshit excuse they gave for letting Josh go.
But he wasn't sure if he was ready to.
Instead, he turned toward the bedroom, where Jessica was still asleep. The blankets were wrapped tightly around her, her face barely visible beneath the tangle of sheets. She looked peaceful like this.
He didn't want to wake her up.
Didn't want to tell her.
But he had to.
Mike stood in the doorway of the bedroom, arms crossed, watching Jess as she slept. She was curled up on her side, her blonde hair spilling over the pillow, her breathing steady. Peaceful. Too peaceful.
He knew better.
Jess didn't sleep peacefully-not anymore. She flinched in her sleep sometimes, fingers twitching against the sheets, face twisting like she was stuck in a memory she couldn't wake up from. Most nights, she tossed and turned, caught in nightmares she never talked about. And when she did wake up, she usually pretended everything was fine, brushing off the lingering fear like it was nothing.
Mike had spent three years watching her do this. Watching her rebuild herself, brick by fucking brick, while the cracks still ran deep beneath the surface.
And now he had to drop this shit on her?
He exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck.
Maybe he should let her sleep a little longer. Let her have one more morning without this weighing on her. But Jess wasn't the type to appreciate being left in the dark. If she found out from someone else, she'd be pissed.
He sighed. No good way to do this.
Walking over to the bed, he crouched down beside her, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. "Jess," he said softly.
She stirred but didn't wake.
"Jess, babe. Wake up," he tried again, voice still quiet but firmer.
A sleepy groan slipped from her lips. "Mmm... too early for this, Mikey..."
Mike let out a dry chuckle. "I know, princess, but we got a situation."
That got her attention. Her brows furrowed slightly before her blue eyes fluttered open, still heavy with sleep. "What kind of situation?" she mumbled, stretching slightly but not sitting up yet.
Mike hesitated for a beat, then just said it.
"Josh is out."
Jess blinked. Once. Twice.
Then, before he could say another word, she shot up so fast she nearly smacked her forehead against his.
"What the fuck?"
Mike rocked back slightly, holding his hands up. "Yeah. That was my reaction too."
She stared at him, blue eyes wide and searching, like she was waiting for him to take it back. When he didn't, she scoffed, shaking her head.
"No. No, that's not-there's no way. How? Why? Who the hell thought that was a good idea?"
Mike leaned against the dresser, arms crossed. "Beats the hell outta me. Sam told me this morning. Guess it's been all over the news for the past couple days. I just didn't see it 'til now."
Jess swung her legs over the edge of the bed, gripping the hem of her sleep shirt like she was grounding herself.
Mike recognized the signs immediately. She was about to spiral.
So he kept talking. Kept control of the conversation before she slipped too deep into her own head.
"Look, I don't know all the details yet, but I can guess. Probably some doctors saying he made progress, some legal loophole, some 'he's not a danger to himself or others' bullshit."
Jess let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Not a danger? Yeah, tell that to me. Tell that to the people who actually fucking suffered."
Mike exhaled slowly. He couldn't argue with that.
Jess shook her head, her hands gripping her thighs. "So that's it? He's just out? Walking around, living his life like nothing happened? Just-just fucking free?"
Mike watched her carefully. Her voice was rising, her breathing getting uneven. Too fast.
"Jess," he said, his tone calm but firm.
She didn't hear him.
"He's the reason we even went to that guest cabin, Mike," she muttered. "He wanted to humiliate us. He set up cameras, like we were his fucking little porno project."
Mike clenched his jaw. That part still pissed him off.
Josh's plan hadn't been to terrorize them like he did Sam, Chris, and Ashley. No, his idea of revenge had been setting them up. Manipulating the situation so that he could record them and use it against them the way Hannah had been recorded. He wanted them to feel exposed.
And maybe that would've been the worst of it. Maybe Mike could've chalked it up to some twisted, fucked-up prank-if Jess hadn't gotten dragged out of the cabin by something way worse.
"Jess," he tried again, stepping closer.
"He got what he wanted," she continued, voice tight. "We went to the cabin. We played right into it. And then I got taken. And then I fucking fell-"
Her voice cut off suddenly, like she was choking on the memory.
Mike knew exactly what she was thinking.
She'd fallen forty feet.
Forty feet down a mineshaft, in nothing but that white floral lingerie she'd bought from Victoria's Secret. She'd landed unconscious, her body bruised and battered, alone in the dark while a goddamn Wendigo stalked her.
That was Jess's nightmare. Not Josh.
Josh hadn't chased her through the mines. He hadn't broken her bones or left scars on her skin. That had been something else entirely. Something worse.
Mike saw the way her shoulders tensed, the way her fingers curled into fists against the sheets. She was drowning.
So he did the only thing he knew would bring her back.
He reached out, gently cupping her face, forcing her to look at him.
"Jess. Breathe."
She blinked rapidly, her breath still uneven.
"Look at me," Mike said firmly, his thumbs brushing against her cheeks. "You're safe. Josh is not here. He is not coming for you. He can't hurt you."
Jess swallowed hard, her chest rising and falling in shaky bursts.
Mike held her gaze. "Say it back to me."
She hesitated. "I'm safe," she murmured.
"Again."
"I'm safe," she repeated, stronger this time.
Mike nodded, pressing his forehead against hers. "Damn right you are."
For a moment, she just breathed. Just sat there, leaning into him, letting his presence pull her back to the present.
Then, finally, she pulled away slightly, shaking her head. "I need to see it," she muttered. "I need to know."
Mike sighed. "Jess-"
But she was already grabbing her phone, scrolling furiously. Within seconds, her screen was flooded with news articles. She scanned them, her breath still uneven.
Then, suddenly, she froze.
Her face paled.
And when she turned the screen toward him, Mike immediately saw why.
"PSYCHO BEHIND BLACKWOOD HORROR RELEASED: JOSH WASHINGTON WALKS FREE AFTER THREE YEARS IN PSYCHIATRIC CARE."
But Jess wasn't looking at the headline.
She was looking at the photo.
Josh. Standing outside the facility.
Just him and his two cousins they met years ago.
Jess's fingers tightened around the phone.
"He looks... fine," she whispered.
Mike swallowed hard. "You don't know what's going on in his head."
Jess scoffed, shaking her head. "Do you see any fucking remorse in that picture? Because I don't."
Mike exhaled slowly. He knew that look in her eyes.
This wasn't fear anymore.
This was rage.
And suddenly, he knew with absolute certainty-
This wasn't over.
Not for her. Not for any of them.
Portland, Oregon - 9:24 AM PST
ASHLEY
The sizzle of butter melting in the pan filled the quiet apartment, the scent curling through the air as Ashley cracked eggs into a bowl. Sunlight streamed through the window, casting golden hues over the kitchen counter, over the half-unpacked grocery bags, over her hands as she stirred absentmindedly.
She liked mornings like this. Normal mornings. Mornings where she wasn't waking up in a cold sweat, clutching the sheets like they were the only thing keeping her from spiraling.
It had taken her a long time to get here.
The first few months after the mountain had been the worst. The nightmares, the flashbacks, the unbearable anxiety that coiled in her stomach at the slightest noise. The fear. It had followed her like a ghost, seeping into every part of her life.
Chris had been there, of course. Always. But even he couldn't stop her from unraveling.
The worst part? She saw it coming.
Ashley had always been the kind of person who overthought everything. It was a habit, analyzing every scenario, running through every possibility. But she hadn't seen that night coming-not like that. She hadn't expected to watch her friends die. Hadn't expected to see Josh break apart in front of her eyes. Hadn't expected to have to choose.
Chris or Josh.
The sawblade. The blood. The look in Josh's eyes before the world went black.
She knew now that it was all a game. A sick, twisted game. But in the moment? It was real.
That moment-that one moment-was the beginning of the end for her.
After the mountain, she had tried to move on. Tried to pretend she was fine. Tried to be normal. But the nightmares had been relentless, and no amount of therapy, no amount of talking, had been enough to keep them at bay.
So she had turned to other things.
At first, it was just the occasional drink. Something to take the edge off. But then the drinking turned to weed, and the weed turned into something stronger.
The first time she shot up, it had been at some party she barely remembered. Some guy had handed her a needle, and she had taken it without thinking. Without caring.
Chris had found her a week later, barely conscious on the bathroom floor.
She still remembered the look on his face. The sheer terror. The way his hands had trembled as he pulled her up, shaking her shoulders, begging her to wake up.
She had never seen Chris cry before. But that night? He had.
And that had been it.
Chris had dragged her to rehab himself, hands gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles had gone white. He didn't say anything the entire drive. Didn't need to.
Rehab had been... brutal.
She had spent weeks in a sterile, too-bright facility, surrounded by strangers with stories far worse than hers. Withdrawal had been hell. The nausea, the shaking, the headaches that felt like they were splitting her skull in half. But the worst part had been the silence. The way she was left alone with her thoughts, with nothing to drown them out.
She wanted to feel numb. But she couldn't anymore.
The therapists had forced her to talk about it. About Josh. About the mountain. About everything. She had resisted at first, had tried to brush it off, pretend she was just another college girl who had partied a little too hard.
But they saw through her.
She had broken down on the third week, sobbing into her hands as she told them about the basement. About the blood. About the way she had felt when she thought Chris had died in front of her.
She had never felt more empty than she had in that moment.
It had taken months for her to feel like herself again. And even now, she wasn't sure she was completely there.
But she was trying.
She was cooking breakfast.
She was taking care of herself.
She was better.
Ashley exhaled slowly, shaking herself from the memories as she turned back to the fridge, reaching for the last of the ingredients she needed.
And then-
She froze.
Her fingers curled around the fridge handle, her breath catching in her throat as her gaze locked onto something sitting on the shelf.
No.
A cold wave of nausea slammed into her. Her stomach twisted violently.
The world tilted.
Suddenly, she wasn't in the kitchen anymore.
She was back in the basement.
The cold. The darkness. The suffocating scent of death. The way her flashlight flickered as she stepped forward, her breath hitching, her entire body shaking as she followed the trail of blood.
And then-
The pigs.
The dead pigs.
Lined up in a grotesque display, their bodies gutted, their blood smeared across the walls. The sight had seared itself into her brain, a memory she had tried so fucking hard to bury.
Ashley stumbled back, her shoulder slamming into the counter. Her chest heaved, her vision swimming.
"Chris!" she screamed, panic lacing every syllable.
Heavy footsteps pounded from the other room. A second later, Chris appeared in the doorway, his brows furrowed, his face tight with alarm.
"What? What happened?" His eyes flicked over her, searching for some sign of danger.
Ashley pointed a shaking finger toward the fridge. "Why the fuck is there pork in our fridge?!"
Chris blinked. The tension in his body eased slightly. "...Wait, what?"
"Pork, Chris! Fucking pork!" Her voice cracked slightly. "I told you we don't eat that! I don't eat that! You know why!"
Chris stared at her for a beat, then ran a hand through his hair. "Jesus Christ, Ash, I thought something serious happened."
Ashley gaped at him. "This is serious!"
Chris sighed, stepping forward and opening the fridge. He spotted the neatly wrapped pack of pork sitting on the shelf and let out an exasperated groan. "I didn't buy that," he muttered, grabbing it and inspecting the label. "Must've been mixed in with the grocery delivery."
Ashley took a shaky breath, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes. Get it together.
She knew she was overreacting. She knew it was irrational. But the sight of that meat sitting there, just like the ones Josh used, had sent her straight back to that basement.
Chris tossed the pork into the trash, tying up the bag like he was sealing away a bad memory. He turned back to her, his expression softer now.
"Hey," he said gently. "It's gone. Alright? I'll double-check next time. No more surprise pig corpses in the fridge."
Ashley let out a weak laugh, running a hand through her hair. "I just... I wasn't expecting it."
"I get it," Chris murmured, stepping closer. "You good?"
Ashley hesitated before nodding. "Yeah. Just-just had a moment."
Chris gave her a small smirk, his way of lightening the mood. "A dramatic one, but yeah, I caught that."
She rolled her eyes, swatting at his arm. "Shut up."
He grinned, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "You gonna be okay, babe?"
Ashley exhaled slowly, forcing her heartbeat to steady. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."
And for now, she was.
Because she didn't know yet.
She didn't know about Josh.
Didn't know that, in just a few hours, everything was about to spiral all over again.
Los Angeles, California - 10:13 AM PST
KIDA
The scent of coconut and vanilla filled the dorm room as Kida smoothed lotion over her legs, the slow rhythm of her hands methodical, almost meditative. Her laptop sat open on the bed, a script highlighted with annotations, half-read notes scrawled in the margins. The faint hum of traffic drifted through the slightly cracked window, a reminder of the city that never really slept.
Three years.
It had been three years since the mountain, since everything changed. And despite how far she had come, some nights still felt like she was clawing her way out of that fucking coffin.
Kida exhaled sharply, shaking off the thought. Not today.
She had made it to her senior year. A dream she once thought she wouldn't reach, not after that night. Not after waking up in the mines, gasping for breath, clawing through dirt and debris, the weight of the earth pressing in around her. She had survived that. And she had survived everything after.
At least, that's what she told herself.
Her reflection in the small mirror by her desk didn't look like someone who had suffered. Her hair was sleek, straightened and falling just past her shoulders-a temporary switch-up from her usual curls. Her skin was clear, her nails painted a deep shade of burgundy, rings adorning her fingers. She looked put together. Confident. Like someone who had it all handled.
But then there were the nights. The nights when the walls of her dorm room closed in just a little too tight. When she jolted awake, breathless, heart hammering, the weight of unseen dirt still pressing down on her chest. When she could still hear the echoes of her own screams, muffled beneath six feet of fucking wood.
She didn't talk about it.
Not to Matt, even though he would listen. Even though he had listened every other time. But it wasn't fair, was it? To bring it up again and again? To remind him of the shit he was trying to move past too?
She had always been strong. That's what people told her. That's what Matt told her. You're the strongest person I know.
So why did she feel so fucking tired?
Her fingers stilled against her thigh as she stared blankly at the open script on her bed. It was a monologue she had been practicing for her acting class. Something about loss, about pain, about finding hope in the wreckage of grief. And wasn't that just the perfect fucking metaphor?
She sighed, grabbing her phone out of habit, scrolling mindlessly before stopping on a contact she hadn't called in a while.
Sam.
Her thumb hovered over the message box.
They hadn't talked in what felt like forever. Not because of anything specific-life had just happened. Sam was in San Francisco, buried in school, always busy. Kida had her own shit too. But still...
Sam was the only one, besides Matt, who really knew.
She had been the one to pull Kida out of the mines. The one to hold her shaking hands as they sat in the lodge, waiting for the nightmare to end. The one who had looked at her, really looked at her, and understood without Kida needing to say a word.
She should reach out. She should say something.
But what?"Hey, you ever just wake up feeling like you're still buried alive? Lmk if that ever happens to you."
Yeah. No.
Kida locked her phone and tossed it onto her bed.
She could handle this. She always did.
The door to the dorm swung open, and just like that, the air shifted.
"Kidaaa! You will not believe the absolute artistic vision I just captured."
Kida didn't even have to turn around to know Jamie had entered the room. Her roommate. A self-proclaimed visionary, a whirlwind of energy wrapped in loud outfits and an even louder personality.
Jamie had a camera hanging around her neck, her nails painted some neon shade Kida couldn't quite focus on this early in the morning. She was grinning, her eyes practically glowing with excitement.
Kida barely glanced at her before responding flatly. "Let me guess. Another artsy shot of someone's morning coffee?"
Jamie gasped, clutching her chest like she had been mortally wounded. "Excuse me? First of all, how dare you undermine my craft? Second of all, yes-but in black and white, which automatically makes it deep."
Kida snorted despite herself.
Jamie was a lot. But in a way that Kida didn't entirely mind.
They had only been roommates for a few months, but Jamie had this way of filling every empty space with her presence, like she refused to let silence settle. And for someone like Kida, who spent too much time alone in her own thoughts, maybe that wasn't such a bad thing.
Jamie plopped down on her bed, kicking off her sneakers. "So, what's on today's agenda? Are we skipping responsibilities? Running away to Mexico? Living off stolen avocados?"
Kida shook her head, stretching her legs out in front of her. "Drama class in an hour. Then self-care. Then probably a nap because life is exhausting."
Jamie nodded in understanding. "Respect. Gotta keep that mental health in check. Self-care is the backbone of hot girl stability."
Kida let out a quiet laugh. "You're ridiculous."
Jamie grinned. "And yet, you tolerate me."
"For now," Kida teased.
But the truth was? She didn't just tolerate Jamie.
Kida had spent so long in her own head, so long convincing herself that she was fine, that she didn't need to talk about things, that having someone like Jamie-someone who didn't know about the mountain, who didn't look at her like she was fragile-felt... refreshing.
Maybe she needed that.
Maybe she needed someone who didn't know about the buried coffin. About the panic attacks. About the weight that still sat heavy on her chest some nights.
Maybe, for now, pretending was enough.
End of Chapter Five
Here's a chapter for you guys. I have not abandoned this book, I swear! I think it's safe to say to expect an update once a month. I do have other books I am mainly focused on but I still have my ideas with the book. I know the segments with the characters are short. Unless you guys wanna read 10k words, this will be brief sorta. It will be a few chapters until we see everyone in one place, hehe.
Until Next Time!
-NZURI