Y/n stood at the top, half-falling forward, one hand pressed against the gash in their side. Blood soaked through their fingers, dark and warm. The other hand was empty. The lightning bolt crackled above their head, a jagged fork of pure white fire, suspended like a crown no one asked for.

Below, the camp had gone still. Dozens of faces tilted upward, wide-eyed, frozen mid-meal, mid-laugh, mid-move. A counselor’s chair scraped back. Someone dropped a plate. The clatter echoed up the hill like a warning.