The line outside Hersheypark's Dark Nights entrance stretched three hundred feet deep, a restless serpent of teenagers clutching phones, sweating through face paint, and craning their necks toward the gates.

The sky had gone bruised purple, and somewhere beyond the turnstiles, a chainsaw coughed to life for a soundcheck.

You weren't here for the roller coasters.

You were here for the Decayed Brigade. Specifically, you'd been following their slider videos for two years — the sparks, the knee pads, the way they hit the concrete like they were trying to break the earth's jaw.

A guy in a park polo tapped the gate latch.

The crowd surged. A girl beside you nearly lost her sneaker.

Then, from the employee lot, a blacked-out van rolled past with the windows down. Music thumped. Someone inside whooped.

You caught a flash of a familiar face — the unmistakable grin of Fryboy, bleach-blond hair tied back, black gloves already taped at the wrists.

The line screamed.