Summer Chronicles (Worm AU / Chronicle + Others crossover)

[Kokusho]

It had been a year, but the memory hadn't faded.

It crept in like dreams do, quiet and out of order. They were in the car, her mom humming under her breath, her Bluetooth headset blinking softly against her cheek as she juggled a work call and the steering wheel. The air conditioner was too cold, and the traffic too slow, and Taylor, age eleven and a half and full of herself, was not in the mood for delays.

"You said we were going straight to Emma's," Taylor had snapped, arms crossed, forehead practically glued to the window. "She's waiting. You said."

Her mom, still smiling that too-patient smile, had made a turn instead. Toward the university. She pressed a button on her headset, and sighed.

"It will be fast honey. I just need ten minutes to finish this call, and drop off some papers. Then we'll head over to Emma's. I promise."

"You always put work ahead of me or dad! Just drop the papers in a mailbox or something, why do you even have to go in—"

"Taylor," her mom said, gently. "Sweetie, let me finish this work thing, and then—"

But Taylor didn't let it go.

She crossed her arms so tight they hurt and kicked the glove compartment, once, twice, then again until her mother flinched and told her to stop. She turned her whole body toward the passenger door, pressing her forehead against the cold window like she could somehow melt through it.

"You said we'd go to Emma's first! You promised! You always break your promises when it's about her," she said, her voice rising to a whine. "You just care more about your stupid job!"

Her mom glanced at her, calm on the surface but with that tightness in the jaw that Taylor had learned to poke like a bruise.

"Taylor, not now—"

"No, not ever!" Taylor snapped. "You don't care about me at all! If Emma's mom was your boss maybe you'd remember what's important!"

She could hear herself, could hear how awful she sounded, and didn't stop. It was like the anger had started moving on its own. Her leg hurt from how she'd kicked, but she ignored it.

That's when her mom snapped, too. Not loud. Just precise.

"You know what, Taylor?" Annette said, voice perfectly calm, but cold. "Emma's been dragging you down since the moment you befriended her. You were going to Arcadia. Do you remember that? You were ahead of the curve. But now you're going to Winslow because Emma didn't bother to put effort in class and heaven forbid if you don't share every single moment with her."

Taylor froze.

Annette continued, unbothered. "You could've skipped a grade if you hadn't made your life revolve around someone who doesn't even challenge you intellectually. I didn't say anything because you refuse to make any more friends, but that doesn't mean I didn't notice."

Taylor's face burned. She folded in on herself.

Her mother adjusted her headset with one hand and clicked it over to speaker mode.

"—Yes, James I'm still here. I've got the last batch of the lit exams, and I'll get those grades right now. The undergrad papers are in my inbox, I promise. No, no, I haven't forgotten the submission. The capes and culture piece, you know The parahuman revolution and its effects on pop culture."

Taylor said nothing. Just listened to her mother's calm, steady cadence as if it had nothing to do with the dagger she'd just driven into her chest.

Taylor had fallen into silence then, sniffling, eyes hot. She didn't say sorry. She didn't ask if she could still go. She just let the car rock her into thinking it was all fine now.

Annette's voice grew tighter as she spoke into the headset. "No, James, you told me I'd have the weekend. I adjusted the reading list and marked three dozen exams, and now you want—what, final notes on the thesis draft? While I'm in traffic?"

Her fingers tapped on the steering wheel, one eye on the road, the other fixed on her phone's screen where a file had just opened from her email. She kept talking, voice clipped and just shy of angry.

"I'll send the annotations tonight, but if we're pretending this is a collaborative process, then I'd like us to actually collaborate."

Taylor noticed the light turn yellow. Her mom didn't.

"Mom—"

"One second," Annette cut her off, waving a hand. "James, listen, if we shift the paper's focus to the broader literary impact post-Behemoth rather than just the immediate cultural trauma, we'll have stronger crossover potential. It's not just literature anymore, it's post-human canon."

"Mom!" Taylor shouted, but it was too late.

Everything went still. The only thing she could hear were the tires. Screeching, wailing like a murder victim. Then, a flash of red, and the dull crunch of metal.

The last words she had shared with her mom had hurt. If only she had been better, if only she wasn't so clingy to Emma, if only her mom's boss could wait a few minutes to talk in person.

----

Taylor woke, sitting in a passenger's seat. She lifted her eyes, hoping it had all been a long nightmare. But they were not on her mom's sedan, but on her dad's old pickup truck. There was still the ghost of the pain she felt on her leg from that fateful day.

She rubbed the scar on her leg and winced.

She caught her dad side-eyeing her, and her injury. They barely talked about it, mostly because bringing it up would also remind them that her mom was no longer with them. Her dad always looked at her knee when he thought she wasn't paying attention. Like it had something to say about both of them.

It was raining the way it always rained when something important was about to happen. Not pouring, not drizzling, just… persistent enough to make you feel like the sky had something it wanted to say and was too polite to shout.

"Almost there," Danny offered with a weak attempt at sounding cheerful.

Taylor didn't look up. She could see the trees getting denser outside the window. They leaned in toward the road, mossy and old, like they had secrets. Probably the kind of secrets you didn't want to hear.

She didn't reply. Didn't need to. He knew she was angry. Probably thought she was just being a difficult thirteen-year-old kid. He didn't know how much she hated him right now.

Well, maybe not hated. But it was close enough.

Camp Echo came into view like something out of a brochure: wooden cabins spaced too far apart, a glitter of lake behind the trees, a big hand-painted sign with letters that leaned at odd angles. Danny parked in front of a squat building labeled "Registration." Taylor reached for the door handle before the truck had even come to a full stop. As she swung it open and shifted her weight forward, a sharp lance of pain tore through her leg—sudden, savage, like the injury had decided to reintroduce itself with flair. She instinctively grabbed for her crutch, but her fingers fumbled. It slipped from her grip, clattering to the gravel below with a hollow thud.

She froze, half in, half out of the truck, teeth gritted. The ache surged up from her knee to her chest, not just pain but embarrassment, hot and crawling. Her dad was already out of his seat, moving around the truck.

"Taylor—"

"I've got it," she snapped, too fast. She didn't look at him as she reached down awkwardly, fingers scrabbling for the crutch.

Danny hesitated. She could feel him hovering, unsure whether to help or let her stubbornness win.

She grabbed the crutch and hauled herself upright, wincing but hiding it. She could feel his eyes on her, but she didn't meet them.

"I said I've got it," she muttered, this time softer.

And she limped away, not waiting to see if he followed.

"You got your bag?" he asked, a few steps away.

"Yes, I got my bag." She motioned to her backpack, but didn't look back at him. She didn't want him to see her hurting. Not again. Not here.

Danny hovered for a moment, clearly worried, but stepped back as she steadied herself.

"It's fine," she said again, this time with less bite, already walking away like it didn't hurt at all.

----------

The cabin smelled like cedar, dust, and the kind of soap that didn't actually clean anything. She was bunked with three other girls.

One of them had already claimed the bottom bunk. She had one foot up against the bedpost and was sketching in a notebook with headphones in. When Taylor walked in, she looked up, dark eyes sizing her up like an artist scanning a still life for flaws.

Taylor eyed the three earrings in the girl's ear, the way they caught the cabin's dim light with every flick of her head. They looked like they should hurt or like they should mean something. Taylor wasn't sure if she envied her for wearing them, or for being the kind of person who could pull them off without seeming like she was a tryhard.

The girl was almost as tall as Taylor, but she carried herself like she didn't care whether she was taller or shorter or invisible entirely. Unlike Taylor, she had a nice heart-shaped face that belonged on a poster and eyes the color of the sky. Taylor decided immediately that she was the kind of person who always knew exactly who she was and hated that it made her feel smaller by comparison.

"Hey," the girl said simply, tugging one earphone out. "I'm Jane. I draw weird stuff and snark sometimes. You're stuck with me."

"Taylor."

Jane nodded once, then gestured lazily with her pencil to the girl opposite them, who seemed to be trying to tidy her clothes as she read something.

Taylor looked more closely at the girl. She was clearly Asian but what threw Taylor was how tall she was, easily half a head taller than herself. Not gangly-tall, either. She looked solid, like she knew how to stand her ground.

Her wavy chestnut hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, secured with a green hair tie that somehow made her look like she'd stepped out of a school anime and into real life. Taylor felt a quiet pang of envy.

Her own hair was still in that awkward in-between stage, and no matter how long she let it grow, it just hung there, thin and unimpressive. She reached up and touched it out of habit, fingers brushing the uneven ends. It had been shaved off entirely in the hospital during an emergency head surgery after the accident. The doctors had said it was the only way to save her. A piece of her skull still ached when it rained. They had saved her life, she knew that. But a part of her still felt raw and angry, like she'd been punished for surviving.

Her mother's hair had always been long and full and perfect. Taylor had wanted to grow hers in tribute. But now, it just felt like a reminder of everything she'd lost.

"That's Makoto. She's been folding those same shirts for ten minutes, a bit of a klutz, I gather. But don't let that fool you. Girl's got abs. She could probably throw down with a bear and win."

Makoto looked up at the sound of her name, offering a small smile that was both shy and perfectly controlled. She held up a paperback book—something pink and clearly romantic.

"Chapter fifteen," she said with a thick Japanese accent. "They just confessed. Is very sweet. Maybe... maybe I will find someone like that here? Prince Charming in a pine forest?" She gave a tiny laugh, full of glee and half-hopeful wonder. Her eyes sparkled behind long lashes, then darted shyly back to the page as if afraid she'd said too much.

Taylor blinked, caught off guard. Not just by the accent, or the words, but by how earnestly Makoto believed in something Taylor had almost forgotten to want.

Taylor eyed the top bunk with mild dread. She dumped her backpack on it and began to strategize the climb.

Jane watched her for a second, then swung her legs off her bunk. "You're not seriously going to try to climb up there with that crutch, are you?"

"I can manage," Taylor said, already wincing a little as she tried to shift her weight.

"Yeah, no. Switch with me," Jane said, standing up and grabbing her stuff.

Taylor stiffened. "I don't need help."

"Sure," Jane replied, already tossing her pillow onto the top bunk. "But maybe I do. It's easier to ignore people when I'm higher up."

Taylor opened her mouth to argue, then sighed. "Fine. Thanks."

Jane gave a casual shrug like it was no big deal, even though it obviously was.

From the far side of the cabin, a loud, rhythmic snore interrupted the moment. Both girls turned.

A fourth girl lay sprawled on her bunk, fast asleep and utterly unaware.

"She was like that when I got here," Jane said. "I figure we'll get introduced later—probably after she wakes the entire camp with that chainsaw snoring."

-----

The days slipped by like half-sketched pages in a journal—unfinished, unremarkable, and not really worth remembering. Taylor tried. She really did. But there was a current running under everything, a wrongness that made it hard to settle into camp life. The other campers had their own rhythms, their own in-jokes and fast-forming friendships. Taylor felt like background noise.

She didn't dislike her bunkmates, but they also didn't have a lot in common. They barely interacted when they weren't at their cabin.

She spent most of her time reading, but the three books she'd brought were wearing thin. She paced her re-reads like rationed food. One afternoon, while Taylor sat on the porch of the cabin with her nose in a dog-eared paperback, Makoto approached with a warm smile and something wrapped in a cloth napkin.

"Hey, Taylor!"

Taylor jumped slightly at the voice, heart skipping a beat before she turned her head. Makoto stood there, smiling as if she hadn't just scared the life out of her.

"I brought you some melon slices," she said brightly, setting them down beside Taylor. "And... maybe you want something new to read, too?"

She offered a pink-covered paperback with elegant cursive lettering. The cover showed a girl with windswept hair being swept into the arms of a chiseled, dramatically backlit man.

Taylor stared at it. "Uh. Thanks," she said. "But I'm not really into romance."

Makoto tilted her head, unfazed. "This one has sword duels, too. But also love. The best kind. Not perfect, but worth it."

Taylor gave a polite smile. "I'm okay with what I've got."

Makoto didn't press. She just sat beside her, quietly picking at a slice of melon. "In my old school," she said softly, still in her thick Japanese accent, "we read stories like these at lunch. Hid them in math books. Some girls said love is just fantasy, but I think... Maybe it is practice. For when it's real."

Taylor looked at her sideways. Makoto seemed impossibly composed, legs tucked neatly beneath her, back straight like she'd been taught posture by a ballet instructor. Her eyes, though, were wide with wonder, like she actually believed there might be someone waiting for her in this camp full of sunburns and insect repellent.

It was hard not to feel small next to that kind of hope. Taylor found herself watching Makoto in quiet fascination, wondering how someone who had likely fled a disaster like Leviathan's attack on Japan could still believe in fairy-tale endings. Maybe that's what made it easier—believing in something so big, so beautiful, that the past didn't seem quite as heavy.

Taylor smiled again, this time with just a little sincerity. "Thanks for the melon."

Makoto beamed like it was the biggest compliment she'd gotten all week.

-----

Elsa, the fourth girl in their cabin—the one who'd been snoring on arrival—was everything Taylor wasn't. Loud. Confident. She waltzed into the dining hall like it was a fashion show, hips swaying, head held high like she knew all eyes were on her and that she deserved it. She lounged by the lake in a bright blue bikini, flanked by other girls who orbited her like she had her own gravity.

"She probably does," Jane muttered one afternoon, watching the scene unfold from their cabin's porch. "Early bloomer, massive gravitational pull. Bet those got her own tides."

Taylor snorted before she could stop herself. She hated that she found it funny.

It was strange, laughing. It crept up on her like a slip in footing, and when it came, it left her breathless and shaken. She pressed her hand to her mouth, like she could shove it back in. Guilt bloomed in her chest. How could she laugh? What right did she have, when her mom was gone, when she was the reason? When the last thing they'd shared had been angry words?

Elsa always seemed to have something she thought was clever to say, and she made sure to say it loud enough for everyone to hear. Whether it was mocking someone's mismatched socks or boasting about her last summer in Italy with obvious embellishments, she demanded attention like a bonfire, flashy, warm at first glance, but mostly smoke and show once you got close.

"Taylor, right?" Elsa had said once during swim hour, flicking water from her fingers with the poise of someone born on stage. "You don't swim? Or is that just your excuse to reread the same book over and over?"

Taylor had shrugged. "I don't like cold water."

Elsa rolled her eyes with a grin. "Suit yourself. But you're missing the epic camp gossip. And I'm basically the main character."

She dove in with a perfect arc that made Taylor grit her teeth.

Jane was easier. She didn't ask anything of Taylor, which Taylor appreciated more than she could say. They shared silences like old friends who knew words were optional, exchanged glances that said things like "You seeing this nonsense too?" without needing to speak, and occasionally lobbed snarky commentary back and forth like lazy tennis volleys.

Once, while Elsa was bragging that her family's villa in Tuscany had a pool bigger than the lake, Jane leaned over and stage-whispered, "At this rate, her next vacation home will be on the moon. I'm taking bets now."

Taylor had choked on her drink.

Another time, during arts and crafts, Elsa had declared with theatrical flair that glitter was the "language of the gods." Jane didn't even look up from her sketchpad. "Then I hope they're all mute."

Taylor didn't laugh out loud. Not always. But her lips would twitch, and Jane would catch it. It was enough.

For once, someone got her without trying too hard to fix her.

Makoto tried to include her gently—inviting her to help cook, nudging her toward the campfire to roast marshmallows, asking her opinion on plot twists with genuine curiosity. "Do you think he really loves her, or is he just afraid to be alone?" she'd ask, eyes wide with wonder, like the answer actually mattered. Taylor usually just shrugged or muttered a reply, pretending not to care.

But it wasn't that she disliked them. Not Jane with her snarky comments or Makoto with her big, open heart. It was just... easier to stay one step back. Easier to laugh with Jane from a distance, to admire Makoto's earnest kindness without stepping too far into its warmth.

Because part of her still believed that any connection she made here would dissolve the second the summer ended—like the camp itself, temporary and slightly unreal. Like she was just playing at being a different person, and the real Taylor—the one with the limp and the guilt and the hole where her mom used to be—was waiting back home, like a bad book she couldn't shelve away.

The counselors were cheerful, upbeat in that slightly forced way that told Taylor they'd either done this too long or not long enough. Counselor Diane, in particular, had made it her personal mission to check in every day. Today, she crouched beside Taylor with a clipboard in hand and an encouraging grin.

"How's the leg feeling, champ?"

Taylor gave her usual noncommittal shrug.

Diane tapped her pen against the clipboard, undeterred. "Well, if you're up for it, arts and crafts is starting in fifteen. You wouldn't have to be on your feet. Just some glue, popsicle sticks, maybe even glitter if you're brave. Sounds like something you could try without too much pressure on that leg?"

Taylor opened her mouth, then closed it again. The idea of glitter made her wince harder than the pain in her leg. "I'll think about it," she said, the words a practiced dodge.

"Thinking about it's step one," Diane said cheerfully, already moving on to the next camper.

Taylor exhaled and leaned back against the cabin wall, watching the trees sway as if they knew something she didn't.

In the evenings, the campfire glowed and the other kids laughed at stories about pranks and haunted outhouses. Taylor sat on the edge of the circle, pretending to read by firelight.

No one noticed when she laughed at least ten seconds later than everyone else. No one noticed her lack of mirth. No one noticed when she slipped away early.

She didn't mind. Not really.

-----

A few days later, she limped across the gravel to the camp's payphone. No cellphones allowed in the Hebert house. Not after the accident. So the payphone was her only link to the person who still understood her.

Emma.

She dropped two quarters into the slot and dialed.

"Hello?"

"Emma!" Taylor's voice was a rushed breath of air. "Okay, I have to talk fast because I only have two minutes and I need the other fifty cents to call Dad. We rowed across the lake this morning to this waterfall—well, more like a water stair, really—and everyone was sliding down the slick rocks like it was the best day of their lives..."

She swallowed. The lie, the half-truth—whatever it was—sat heavy on her tongue. She knew Emma wouldn't buy it. Emma knew Taylor couldn't row across a lake, not with her limp. Couldn't scramble across rocks slick with moss. Could barely walk to the mess hall some mornings.

But saying it—pretending—it made things feel just a little more normal.

Emma usually had colorful commentary for whatever insanity Taylor decided to ramble about. Not today, it seemed.

Taylor clutched the phone tighter, leaning into the cool metal like it could somehow bridge the gap. "It's fine though, I've been reading. A lot. Wish I brought more books. I've basically memorized the three I brought. Should've listened to Dad for once."

A beat passed. She hesitated, the words twisting in her chest.

"…Wish you were here. It's not the same without you."

Still nothing from Emma. She rambled on.

"—and Elsa, she's this girl wearing a bikini, she's been spending the last three days acting like she's hot stuff, she slides down the wrong part, and it catches on the strap, right? It doesn't tear it off, but it stretches, so it doesn't even fit her anymore…"

Emma didn't seem to listen to her, was she getting tired of her? Taylor kept talking. But Emma had hung up.

Taylor stared at the phone for almost a minute, before someone shoved her and took it from her hands. Everyone wanted to call home, it seemed. She groaned in pain and limped away.

----------

That night, Taylor laid awake in her bunk, her eyes tracing the faint shadows on the ceiling above. The woods outside sounded alive in a way she didn't like. Not wind-in-the-trees alive—more like the kind of alive that listened back. She turned onto her side and glanced toward the bunk above her. Jane's quiet snoring drifted down in irregular bursts. Across the room, Makoto slept with her hands tucked neatly under her cheek, mouth slightly open, the romance novel she'd been reading now resting on her chest. Elsa's heavy, chainsaw snore rumbled from the far bunk like a growling engine.

Taylor sighed and rolled onto her back again. Her stomach churned with unease.

Why hadn't Emma said anything?

She shifted restlessly, the ache in her leg sharp and familiar, but no sharper than the ache beneath her ribs. Was Emma angry at her? Did she talk too much without breathing? Taylor had replayed the call in her head a dozen times already. Emma knew she couldn't row a boat. Couldn't climb rocks. Could barely walk without a crutch some days.

Was Emma annoyed because she had lied?

Why had she lied?

Because it was easier than admitting she was just sitting around while everyone else lived. Because it hurt less than saying: I'm falling apart and I need you.

She couldn't take it anymore.

Slipping out of bed as quietly as she could, Taylor grabbed her crutch and made her way to the door. The wood creaked under her weight, but the others didn't stir. The camp was wrapped in moonlight, the cabins casting long shadows over the gravel paths. She limped past the mess hall, past the fire pit, past the bathhouse with its flickering fluorescent bulb. Her breath fogged in the cool night air.

Then, as she rounded the bend near the lower cabins, she saw a faint light leaking through the curtains of one of the boys' cabins. She slowed.

That's when she smelled it. Sweat. Socks. The unmistakable haze of too many teenage boys in one place for too long.

She grimaced and was about to turn back when she caught the muffled sound of voices. Curious, she crept closer. Laughter. Then something quieter. Whispered. Urgent.

She hovered by the corner of the building, her pulse quickening.

"…I'm telling you, it's real," one voice said. Greg's voice. She recognized that breathless, conspiracy-laced intensity. "It wasn't just a storm, okay? Last night something fell from the sky, it was like a flying saucer or something. There's proof. Ask Billy. He saw it."

"Dude, shut up," someone else whispered. "What if they hear you?"

"I'm just saying. After that thing crashed, a hole in the ground opened up, it's weird, with static and whatnot. It's beyond the fence so the counselors didn't bother to check on it. And it's not on any map. You wanna know what they found inside?"

"Sounds like bullshit." One of the other boys said.

"Or a Simurgh plot." Another added.

"Simurgh plot!?" Greg squawked. "Billy, tell them!"

Taylor peeked through the window. Two boys were up, while their bunkmates were busy on their beds, one playing with a Game Boy while the other read a comic book.

The boy with glasses, tall with skin as dark as night, muttered something that Taylor didn't quite catch.

Greg suddenly marched to the other end of the cabin. "If you're not coming, then we're going on our own, what do you say, Billy?"

"It... it actually could be a Simurgh plot, you know." The tall boy with the glasses, Billy, replied.

Greg shook his head. "Nah, man, it's gotta be aliens." He handed Billy a flashlight. "Come on, let's go."

The taller boy seemed to be about to explain to Greg that his idea was stupid, but stared at the flashlight for a moment and shook his head. He followed after Greg.

Taylor suppressed a groan as she hid behind some bushes, watching the pair of boys power-walk towards the edge of the camp.

She thought of Emma and how she wouldn't even talk to her—just cut off the line like Taylor didn't matter anymore. Like the call had been one inconvenience too many. Taylor's chest burned. She couldn't swim, couldn't run, couldn't even walk without wincing—but maybe she could follow a couple of dumb boys into what was almost certainly the dumbest idea of the week.

She could be brave. Brave like the girl she used to pretend to be in their make-believe adventures. Brave like the version of herself that hadn't needed a crutch.

She was already a liar.

Why not go all in? Why not add "trespassing in a forbidden zone" to the itinerary? Seemed on brand for the day she was having.

----------

The woods were damp, the kind of wet that soaked through your shoes and clung to your skin like a warning. Dead leaves blanketed the forest floor, crunching quietly beneath hesitant feet. Taylor limped after Greg and Billy, doing her best to stay quiet, her ears tuned to every whisper of movement. Her breath fogged in the cool air, the crutch clicking now and then on loose roots and stone.

Taylor could barely see in the dark. Only the distant light from the boys' flashlights guided her path. She groaned in pain as her crutch got stuck on a tree root, and eeped when she realized she was falling—until arms wrapped around her mid-air.

She shrieked, half-expecting to hit the ground. Instead, a pair of strong hands steadied her.

"Easy there," a voice said, half-laughing, half-yawning.

But for a second—just a second—Taylor hadn't known who it was. In the low light, the tall silhouette and shadowy eyes had looked monstrous, like something crawling out of a dream. Taylor's breath caught in her throat.

"Jane?" Another voice said further away.

Then another figure stepped out from behind a tree, backlit by the distant moonlight, the glint of a small flashlight. Her face half in shadow, half in light, she looked eerily calm. And for a heartbeat, Taylor's pulse spiked again. She had no idea someone had been following her.

Makoto's expression softened when she saw Taylor's face twist in surprise. "You okay?" she asked gently, the worry audible even through her thick accent.

Jane helped Taylor to her feet, steadying her as she passed over the crutch. "Didn't mean to scare you. Stealth mode is not usually my thing. But it turns out you're a surprisingly hard person to follow quietly."

Taylor caught her breath, still shaken. "What are you guys doing here?" she hissed, keeping her voice low as the boys' flashlight beams began to swing in their direction.

"Crap," Jane muttered, blinking blearily. "I think they found us."

"Who?" Makoto asked, eyes narrowing as she turned toward the approaching lights.

Billy is the first to step into the clearing, wide-eyed and panting from the effort. The girls turned toward the sudden rustling—Makoto yelped, Jane startled like she'd been caught mid-heist—and Makoto hurled the nearest object in her reach: a pink-covered romance paperback with a chisel-jawed hero smoldering on the front.

The book hit Billy squarely in the forehead with a muted thwack. He yelps, staggers back, and drops his flashlight, which spins on the ground like a dizzy lighthouse.

"Ow! My glasses!" Billy squawks, clutching at his face as the flashlight beam slices across the trees like a spotlight in a low-budget horror flick. "What's your problem!?"

"Next time, announce yourself like a normal person," Jane muttered, rolling her eyes but hiding a grin. "And maybe don't sneak through the woods like a camp serial killer."

Billy fumbled with his frames, managing to push them up his nose only slightly askew. "I was following Greg. Who are you?"

Makoto bent to retrieve the now slightly dented paperback, holding it like a wounded bird. "They break up on next page," she said with mournful gravity. "But now... suspense is ruined."

Greg's voice echoed from deeper in the woods, somewhere between panic and awe. "Billy! You gotta see this!"

Billy hesitated, rubbing his arm nervously. He glanced at the girls. "Uh... you guys wanna come? Might be cool?"

Jane raised an eyebrow, already halfway through an eye roll. "What's wrong, Big Guy? Scared of the dark?"

Billy opened his mouth, then closed it, looking to Makoto as if hoping for backup. Makoto simply gave a shrug, hugging her slightly dented romance novel like a talisman.

Taylor sighed, pushing herself up straighter despite the ache in her leg. "Give me that," she said, reaching for the flashlight in Billy's hand. When he blinked at her in surprise, she added, "You're going to drop it the second you trip on a root."

He handed it over sheepishly.

Jane looked between them, then grinned. She gave Billy a mock-pitying look. "If you're not careful, she's going to whip you into shape. Literally."

Billy flushed and opened his mouth to object, but Taylor turned slowly and shot Jane a glare so sharp it could've sliced bark off a tree.

Jane raised both hands in mock surrender. "Kidding! Mostly."

With Taylor in the lead, crutch clicking against stones and damp roots, they began to follow the sound of Greg's voice. The forest closed in around them, the branches tangling overhead like skeletal fingers. Every step brought them deeper into the hush of trees and shadow.

The sound reached them first—like static, but low and whispery, as if the forest itself were muttering in its sleep. Not wind. Not insects. Something in-between. It drifted from ahead, strange and wrong, like a distant radio caught between frequencies.

"Is it... humming?" Billy asked, voice tight with unease.

Makoto gripped her book tighter. "It sounds like whispering," she said. "Like... like chanting almost."

"This is definitely a horror movie," Jane muttered. "And we're the idiots walking right into the plot."

They spotted Greg at the crest of a small ridge, barely more than a silhouette against the sickly moonlight filtering through the trees. He stood frozen, flashlight in hand, its beam pointing unsteadily at something on the ground.

"Greg?" Taylor called.

He didn't turn at first. Just gestured frantically for them to come closer. But then, mid-motion, he paused, glancing over his shoulder and blinked.

"Wait, you brought the girls?"

Billy winced, rubbing the back of his neck. Greg shot him a wide-eyed look that screamed, Dude, what the hell? before quickly turning his attention back to the hole, clearly too excited to linger on the unexpected company.

"Whatever. Doesn't matter. You have to see this," he whispered, voice trembling with a mix of fear and awe. "It's alive."

They approached slowly. The ground dipped suddenly into a shallow hollow, and there, where the dirt cracked open like an old scar, was a hole. A perfect circle of darkness. It wasn't just dark, it was empty, the light from the flashlight refusing to touch whatever lay beyond its edge.

"Definitely something out of a horror flick." Jane let out a strangled noise and stepped back. "Nope. Nope. This is where things come crawling out."

Billy crouched next to the hole, eyes wide as he tried to channel some kind of National Geographic narrator. "It could be geothermal... or maybe some kind of erosion? Or, what if it's like magnetism? That would explain the hum, right? Maybe it's even a gas vent or a collapsed tunnel system left behind by—"

"Billy," Greg interrupted, rubbing his temple. "You're just throwing out mumbo jumbo words. None of that made sense."

"It kinda made sense," Billy muttered.

Taylor knelt beside them, wincing at the strain in her leg. She pointed at the lip of the hole, where the dirt was scorched in a perfect ring, and the pebbles nearby subtly vibrated to the rhythm of the low, eerie hum.

"No heat distortion in the air. No smell like gas or sulfur. It's not geothermal," she said, voice low. "But whatever's down there… it's emitting a frequency. Look at the vibration in the rocks. That's not random. It's like it's... resonating? I think."

"You understand what he's saying? I thought he just liked to talk like a Vulcan." Greg blinked, suddenly overjoyed. "Wait, are you saying... aliens did it?"

Taylor gave him a flat look. "I'm saying it's not natural. That doesn't mean alien."

"Alien sounds cooler," Greg muttered, but even he was starting to look rattled.

"Maybe it's a Simurgh plot" Jane said, her voice not as wisecracking as usual.

Makoto's face was pale. "It feels cold. But... not cold. Like something is watching."

Taylor's breath caught in her throat. The hum, no, the whisper, grew louder. Not from the hole, but in her head.

"You guys feel that too, right?" Jane said, her voice too flat, too forced to be casual.

Taylor nodded. Her knuckles were white around the flashlight.

Greg didn't take his eyes off the hole. "It's calling us. I think it wants to be found."

Makoto stood behind them, arms folded. "So what do we do now? Wait for it to climb out? Or are we the ones going in?"

Jane looked at the taller girl like she had grown several heads. "Are you out of your mind? We can't go down there!"

Billy adjusted his glasses, his voice pitching slightly in nervous deflection. "Okay, look, this is not safe. We don't have, like, gear or ropes or enough flashlights with extra batteries. Let alone spelunking equipment. Plus, uh, Hebert's got... y'know, a leg thing. She shouldn't be doing this."

Taylor's spine stiffened. Her jaw clenched.

"You're using me as an excuse not to go down? Seriously?"

Billy shrank back. "No, I just—"

She didn't wait. With a sudden movement, Taylor dropped her crutch onto the dirt with a thunk. The others froze.

"Taylor—" Jane started.

But Taylor was already at the edge, gripping the sides of the hole. The strange hum vibrated through her fingers, through her bones.

She swung one leg in, then the other, and began to lower herself in.

"This is such a bad idea," Jane hissed.

"Nah, she's badass!" Exclaimed Greg. "You go Herbert!"

Taylor rolled her eyes. "It's Hebert, you idiot," she muttered under her breath, but didn't bother correcting him out loud. Not worth the effort.

She steadied herself at the edge of the hole, testing the crumbling dirt with the toe of her good foot. Despite the throb in her leg and the ache that never fully left her bones, she moved with quiet precision, almost practiced, like she had something to prove.

One hand gripped a root. The other braced against the edge. Her movements were slow, but intentional. The hum vibrated through her fingertips, disorienting, like her body wasn't entirely her own. Still, she pressed on, lowering herself foot by foot, teeth clenched.

Greg's flashlight barely lit anything below. Just shadow and more shadow.

Then her foot hit something slick. Moss? Mud?

Her balance faltered. Her weight shifted wrong.

She slipped.

Pain.

Pain flared in her leg like fire, ripping through her nerves. Her arms scraped against the jagged sides, and her foot caught on something loose.

She tumbled down, the world spinning. She heard someone scream her name, maybe Makoto, maybe herself, and then the world blinked out in a sharp, cold silence.