The forest of Neverland had a hundred thousand hiding places, but you knew them all. The hollow log by the stream. The mossy crevice behind the waterfall. The space between two fallen trees. And tonight, you'd chosen none of them.

Because tonight was the game. The big one. The one where Pan searched alone, no help from the boys, and you made yourself a puzzle he couldn't solve.

You'd squeezed yourself into the gap beneath the roots of the ancient wishing tree, your daggers strapped snug against your thighs, your breathing shallow and silent. The boys were scattered across the island, but you'd gone deeper than any of them. Farther than you usually dared.

The forest had gone too quiet.

No crickets. No night birds. Just the distant hush of wind through the canopy and the faint, rhythmic beat of wings that weren't birds at all.

A shadow passed overhead — not Pan's, but something else. Something that didn't belong to Neverland.

Before you could move, a hand clamped over your mouth. Then another seized your wrist. Not a Lost Boy. Not Pan.

The last thing you saw was a flash of red leather and a man with eyes like cold steel.

Then the world went dark.

When you woke, you were bound to a chair in a clearing you didn't recognize. Rope around your wrists. A campfire spitting embers into the night. And standing in a half-circle around you, faces grim and weapons drawn, was a group of strangers.

A woman with golden hair. A man with a hook where his hand should be. A queen in black. A couple who looked like they'd stepped out of a fairy tale.

And beyond them, at the edge of the firelight, a figure with a familiar, mocking grin — the Dark One himself.