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|Hero— Weezer|

THERE, GATHERED ON the dock, is a small group of girls, led by a counselor with a choppy purple mullet.

"We're challenging you to a canoe race," she calls out.

Killian groans loud enough for everyone to hear. He stands, rocking the canoe as he points a dramatic finger. "Trick, this is harassment! You always pick my group. There are others, you know. "

She rolls her eyes, barely holding back a smirk. "Quit whining. You scared, or what?"

"Uh, what's happening?" Ernest asks, his eyes darting nervously behind his glasses.

Killian throws himself back into his seat. "It's this stupid thing she does. Camp tradition. One group challenges another, winner gets to pick a punishment for the losers. It's—"

"We'll take you on!" Fisher cuts in, flashing a cocky smile. He rubs his hands together. "We've got this."

Killian turns to glare at him. "Do you even know the rules?"

"Doesn't matter," Fisher says, leaning forward. "We're better than them. Look at us. Dream team."

Spencer shifts uncomfortably but catches sight of Baylee standing on the dock, her arms crossed but a soft smile on her face. His stomach turns, though he isn't sure if it's nerves or excitement.

Tricks voice cuts through his thoughts. "Alright, if you're done bickering, bring your team up here. I'll explain the rules."

Killian grumbles under his breath, "She's so annoying."

"It's pretty simple."

Trick motions to a red flag stuck in the ground near the dock. "It's a relay. Two boys, two girls. Each team picks their first pair to go out and paddle around the left and right buoy. Once they're back, the next pair takes over. Scores will be tallied at the end to see who has the most wins."

"That's it?" Fisher asks, raising an eyebrow.

"That's it," she says. "Oh, and no ramming or flipping each other over." Her smile turns sly. "Accidents happen, though. So, you know. Watch out."

Killian groans again, rubbing his temples. "She's the worst."

"Alright, huddle up!" Fisher says, beckoning them closer. He lowers his voice conspiratorially. "Here's the plan. Hug the buoys tight. Strongest person goes up front to steer—"

"That's actually not true," Ernest interrupts, adjusting his glasses. "The strongest person should go in the back. They have more control over the canoe and can deliver more propulsion."

Fisher blinks at him, then nods slowly. "Okay. Good point. Strongest in the back. Who's first?"

Killian jabs a thumb at Fisher. "You're the one acting like you've got this in the bag. Guess that's you and Ernest."

Fisher smirks. "Alright, then. I'm the engine. Let's do this."

"You might want to focus less on plans and more on not sucking," Trick calls out, her hands on her hips.

Fisher turns and gives her a mock salute. "We'll see who's laughing when we win."

"Sure thing, champ," she says, gesturing for them to line up.

After watching all of their teammates race, it's finally Spencer and Keat's turn—the last two.

The whistle blows.

They sprint toward the canoe, water splashing around their feet as they shove it into the lake. Keat climbs in first, steadying it, while Spencer scrambles in.

"Paddle left!" Keat shouts, digging into the water with his paddle.

Spencer fumbles to find his rhythm, his strokes messy and uncoordinated. Water splashes in to the canoe with every swing.

"Dude, focus!" Keat yells, glaring over at him.

"Sorry!" Spencer hisses, finally syncing his strokes with Keats.

"Push harder!"

Spencer's arms burn, his shoulders screaming with every stroke. He glances sideways just in time to see the girls' canoe pulling up beside them.

"Don't let them pass us!" Keat shouts.

The girls' canoe veers dangerously close.

"Hey, watch it!" Keat growls, paddling harder to pull ahead.

The girls don't back down. Their canoe clips the side of Spencer and Keat's, and in an instant, the canoe wobbles violently.

"We're tipping!" Spencer yells, panic in his voice—faced with the reality that he doesn't know how to swim.

Keat doesn't have time to respond. The canoe flips, dumping both boys into the water.

The world turns cold and dark as Spencer plunges under the surface.

For a moment, he can't tell up from down. Panic grips him as he thrashes, his arms flailing uselessly. His chest tightens, burning. He needs air.

Don't stop. Just go.

He kicks hard, trying to orient himself. The surface feels impossibly far away. His head throbs from the shock of hitting the water, and he can't think clearly.

Something grabs him—an arm wraps around his chest and yanks him upward with a force that almost knocks the wind out of him.

They break the surface with a gasp, and Spencer coughs violently, choking on the air. He blinks against the sunlight, his vision blurred.

"Breathe, man!" Keat's voice rings in his ears. "You're good. Just breathe."

Spencer coughs again, hacking up lake water. His feet find the muddy bottom as Keat hauls him towards the shallows.

When they make it to dry land, both boys collapse onto the ground, dripping wet, their chests heaving as they catch their breath.

"Hey, are you okay?" Baylee asks as she crouches beside him.

Spencer flinches at her attention, turning his head to avoid her gaze. "Yeah, I'm fine," he snaps. Embarrassment burns hot in his chest, making him feel small.

Baylee shifts awkwardly, her hands dropping to her side as she glances away. A flicker of hurt crosses her face before she schools her expression.

Everyone rushes forward, a flurry of movement as they surround them.

Trick strides over, grinning despite the tension. "Well that was one way to lose. Did you two plan that for dramatic effect, or . . .?"

"Shut up," Killian says. "This isn't the time."

Before Trick can make another quip, a deep voice cuts through the noise.

"What's going on?" Bishop asks, running up. His eyes take in the drenched boys.

"Their canoe flipped," Killian says, jerking a thumb toward the lake. "Spencer almost drowned."

Bishop eyes widen slightly, his demeanor shifting to reveal a flicker of alarm.

"Almost drowned?" he repeats, his voice quiet but firm. "That true?"

Spencer shrugs, avoiding his eyes. "I'm fine now."

Bishop doesn't seem convinced. His gaze flicks to Keat. "And you? You were able to pull him out?"

"Yeah."

He looks between the two boys, his eyes oddly calculating. "Here's the plan: you're both going straight to Nurse Solone. She'll check you out and make sure nothings out of place."

"We're fine," Spencer starts, but Bishop raises a hand, cutting him off with a disarming smile.

"Camp policy, my friend. I can't ignore this. What kind of responsible camp director would I be? Now, come on, let's not keep Solone waiting. You don't want her hunting me down later."

He gestures toward the path, and with a sigh, Spencer and Keat start walking. Bishop falls in behind them, humming softly.

"Solone, got a couple of campers who need checking out," Bishop says, nudging the door open to the infirmary.

The space is compact and orderly, with stark white walls and the faint, sterile smell of antiseptic. A woman looks up from her cluttered desk, her blonde hair pinned into a neat bun and her glasses perched low on her nose. Her no nonsense demeanor immediately takes charge.

"Well, don't you two look like a pair of drowned rats," she quips, gesturing toward a bench. "Shoes off. You're not tracking mud in here."

Bishop offers a genial smile. "I'll leave them in your capable hands. Let me know if they're not cleared to go back." He gives a quick nod before stepping out.

Solone turns her attention to the boys, setting her hands on her hips as her sharp eyes flick between them. "Alright, what happened?"

"The other team knocked us over," Keat answers, glancing briefly at Spencer. "He went under."

"Figures," Solone mutters, shaking her head. "These so-called traditions are more trouble than they're worth. You two are lucky to be here with nothing worse than a scare." She crouches in front of Spencer first, studying his face. "You're looking pale. Feeling dizzy? Lightheaded?"

"No," Spencer mumbles. "I'm fine. Really."

Her eyes narrow, unconvinced. She takes his wrist, her fingers cool and firm as she check his pulse, then listens to his chest with a stethoscope. Finally, she leans back on her heels.

"Heartbeat's a little fast, but that's normal after a something like this." She glances at Keat. "What about you? Any injuries?"

Keat shakes his head. "Just a couple of scrapes."

"Alright, let me get a look at you."

As Solone tends to Keat, Spencer's gaze drifts across the room. His attention snags on a tall shelf in the corner, where a row of small glass vials stand neatly in line. The crisp labels, marked with precise timestamps, seem oddly clinical compared to the more mundane supplies around them.

Spencer tilts his head slightly, his brows furrowing as he tries to place what they could be used for. He doesn't realize how long he's been staring until Keat nudges him.

"You good?" he asks, his voice low.

He snaps his head back and nods, though the thought lingers in his mind.

Solone finishes checking Keat and straightens. "You're both in decent shape, but let's not push it."

She moves to a nearby cabinet, pulling out two clean towels, and tosses one at each of them.

"Dry off and get back to your cabin. Change into something warm. Last thing we need is for either of you to catch a cold on top of this mess. And if you feel dizzy, short of breath, or anything weird, come back immediately. No toughing it out. Got it?"

"Got it," Keat answers as Spencer nods, wrapping the towel around his shoulders.

They leave the infirmary in silence, the air between them heavy with unspoken words.

As they walk down the gravel path toward the cabins, Keat keeps his gaze on the ground. "I'm sorry, Spence."

Spencer glances over at him, an eyebrow raised.

"I should've remembered...about the swimming thing." Keat's voice is quieter now, guilt lacing his words. He pauses, swallowing hard. "I guess I just...."

"Forgot? Yeah, you're pretty good at that."

Keat flinches but doesn't argue. "You know, I never meant for it to be like that. Life just got complicated."

Spencer shrugs, but his pace slows slightly. "It always does."

They continue walking, the squelch of their wet shoes the only sound between them.

"Remember when we found that treehouse in the woods behind my uncle's place?" Keat asks suddenly.

Spencer blinks, caught off guard. "The one we thought belonged to some old homeless dude?"

"Yeah," Keat says with a small chuckle. "You swore up and down it was haunted. Kept trying to convince me not to climb up there."

"Cause it looked like it was falling apart."

Keat grins. "But you came up anyway. Even after the ladder broke. You got stuck halfway for like, what? Ten minutes?"

Spencer scoffs, but a smirk tugs at his lips. "Felt more like hours."

"In my defense, I did try to help you."

"Yeah, after you were done having a good laugh," Spencer says, rolling his eyes.

Keats voice softens as the memory sinks in. "That was a fun day. It felt easy back then, like we didn't have to anything to worry about."

Spencer's expression shifts, a quiet nostalgia setting in. "Yeah, it did."

Keat smirks, glancing at him sidelong. "So...you and Baylee, huh?" He wiggles his eyebrows teasingly.

Spencer exhales sharply, shaking his head. "There's no 'me and Baylee'. You're imagining things."

"Mhm, whatever you say," Keat chuckles, nudging him with his shoulder.

They stop outside the door to their cabin, the tension between them easing just slightly.

Keat looks over at him. "It's kind of nice... y'know, talking like this. Almost feels like old times."

Spencer meets his gaze, a flicker of warmth breaking through his usual guarded expression.

"Almost."

Keat grins. "Guess we'll have to work on that."

With that, they both head into the cabin to change, the awkwardness of their strained relationship still lingering—but now with the faintest hint of something else: the possibility of rebuilding what they'd lost.

The dining hall buzzes with noise—students packed around long tables, the scrape of cutlery, bursts of laughter bouncing off the high ceiling. The setting sun slants through the windows, washing the room in hues of orange and pink.

By the time Spencer walks in, their cabin's defeat is old news. Trick smugly declares her team the winners, and no amount of grumbling from Fisher about the rigged results changes the fact—they're stuck cleaning up after dinner.

"Man, we got hustled," Keat says, dragging a damp cloth across the table.

Fisher slams a plate onto the drying rack. "Hustled? Nah, we got straight-up sabotaged. Big difference."

"I tried to tell y'all," Killian says, stacking chairs against the wall. "Trick plays dirty."

"I mean, it's practically in her name," Spencer mutters, barely glancing up from the trash bag he's tying.

Ernest pauses mid-swipe with the mop and adjusts his glasses. "If you factor in weight distribution, plus their superior steering technique, the outcome was inevitable. Less weight, less drag. The odds weren't in our favor from the start."

Fisher wrinkles his nose and mutters, "Great. So, not only did we lose, but we got outsmarted by physics. Fantastic."

"Sounds about right," a voice chimes from behind them.

Spencer glances over as Evie strides past, a triumphant grin plastered on her face. Her bandana is tied tight around her head, like it's a trophy from the win. She carries her tray toward the dish return, moving slowly—deliberately—as if basking in their humiliation.

You know," she says, turning just enough to throw them a smug look, "I'd give you guys tips next time, but, uh...maybe start with not flipping your canoe."

Fisher's glare could melt steel. "You didn't even win fair, so quit acting like you're hot shit. What you and Sarah did? Any real sport would've disqualified you."

Evie raises an eyebrow, her grin widening. "Oh, please. Crying foul's a nice way to cope with losing, but we all know how this works." She shrugs, unfazed. "Rules are for the weak. You guys should try being better at playing the game."

She gives them one last look, then strides off toward the exit, her confidence practically oozing from every step.

Fisher watches her leave, his jaw tight. "God, I hate her," he mutters under his breath, slamming another dish into the rack with unnecessary force.

The thing is, most people do. Evie's cutthroat competitiveness leaves little room for friendships—real ones, at least. Her obsession with winning, whether it's a race or a classroom debate, always comes first. That's why she's valedictorian.

"That's how love starts, man. Might be a perfect match after all," Keat says with a teasing grin.

Fisher shoots him a sharp look, his scowl deepening. "Not funny. I'd rather drink my own piss."

Spencer silently slings the trash bags over his shoulder and heads for the exit, letting the door swing shut behind him.

Rounding the corner of the building, he stops short, quickly stepping back out of sight.

Bishop stands by the dumpster, peering into a trash bag with a frown. He shakes his head and tosses the bag into the overflowing bin before walking away.

Spencer waits until he's gone, then approaches the dumpster.

The stench hits him immediately—putrid and sour, like something rotting. His stomach churns as he hesitates, but curiosity drags him forward. Lifting the lid, he recoils, gagging at the sight of a bloodied deer leg tangled in trash.

"Poor thing."

Spencer jumps, nearly dropping the lid. He whirls around to find Bishop standing behind him, hands causally tucked into his pockets.

"Looks like some wild animal got to it," Bishop says, his tone calm, almost conversational.

Spencer stares at the bag, his stomach twisting. "That's...messed up," he mutters, covering his nose.

Bishop ties the trash bag closed, seemingly unbothered by the smell. "It was found near the forest's edge," he explains. "Even with the fences, we can't risk leaving carcasses nearby. They attract the wrong kind of attention."

Spencer hesitates. "What kind of attention?"

Bishop meets his gaze with an easy smile, but there's something off about it—too smooth, too practiced. "The kind you don't want around a camp full of kids. Wolves, scavengers...worse things if you're unlucky."

Spencer glances at the bag again, scrunching his nose at the smell. When he looks back, Bishop has stepped closer.

"Word of advice," Bishop says, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Curiosity's a slippery slope, Spencer. Just don't let it pull you into something you can't walk away from."

Spencer stands there, watching him walk away, more perplexed than ever. Bishop's words hang in the air, cryptic and heavy—leaving Spencer to wonder what the hell he meant by that.