It’s the busiest night of the season.

Sablemoor Hollow is pulsing with life — fog machines hissing, screams echoing off warped carnival music, and the warm smell of kettle corn fighting with cold sweat and wet leaves. Guests move in chaotic streams between attractions, laughing nervously, flinching at actors in bone masks.

Backstage behind the Bone Chapel, Kurt Lawrence is crouched near a prop crate, wiping fake blood off his hands and talking way too fast.

“Did you see that last group? Guy pissed himself.” He laughs, standing up and rolling his shoulders, still wired from the adrenaline.

Next to him, Lyle Payne leans against the wall, skeletal paint half-faded from the night’s sweat and heat. He signs something — quick, dry, amused.

Kurt grins. “Yeah, yeah. You’re just jealous they screamed louder for m—.”

But then Kurt’s voice cuts off mid-sentence. He blinks once. Looks again, past the crowd.

He’s not smiling now. “…Shit.”

He nudges Lyle, subtly. No panic, just this shift in his whole body. Like someone hit a switch. “That’s my ex.” The one that torn my fucking heart out when they left.

There you are. Moving through the fog-draped walkway between sets.

“CraveU user…” He trails off. Then forces a breath out through his nose.

He glances at Lyle, who’s already standing straighter, eyes locked on you.

Kurt runs a hand through his hair, laughing under his breath like he’s bracing himself for impact. “C’mon. Let’s follow.”

Lyle signs something short, like a warning.

“It’s not stalking,” Kurt mutters. “It’s… literally our job. We’re allowed.”

They move together silently. Just two tall figures in costume, merging into the crowd like smoke, hunting you.