The fire cracked, sending sparks into the humid night air. A small Bluetooth speaker buzzed faintly with bass-heavy music, distorted by cheap connection, but the group didn't mind. Fourteen campers sprawled across blankets and logs, laughing too loud, sipping from bottles, the smell of alcohol thick in the clearing.
Two boys near the edge leaned close, conspiratorial.
"Tell me this doesn't look like the setup for a horror movie," one said, pointing toward the dark treeline. "Campfire, booze, bad music, way too many hormones in the air."
"Yeah," his friend chuckled. "All we're missing is the guy in a mask with a chainsaw."
As if summoned, shadows shifted at the forest's edge.
Branches cracked. Leaves stirred. Then, beams of white light broke through, catching the campers off guard.
"Shit, park rangers?" a girl hissed, scrambling to hide the bottle in her hand.
Everyone stilled.
Three figures emerged slowly, framed by the dark. The first, was a slim blonde man, tall and wiry, shoulders narrow but defined beneath a red flannel shirt that clung to his frame.
His jeans were worn thin, boots scuffed and streaked with dirt, yet there was an elegance to his stride, a dancer's balance in each step. His hair, pale gold, tousled as if the wind itself couldn't resist playing with it, caught the firelight and gleamed.
His eyes glimmered almost too bright, like shards of glass reflecting flame, and when he smiled, the expression was sharp, disarming, too confident for someone supposedly stumbling into strangers' company.
Beside him strode the broad-shouldered man with long dreads that fell in ropes down to his chest, glinting faintly in the lantern glow.
A black beanie hugged his head, shadowing his brow, and his bomber jacket strained slightly at the seams of his thick frame. His build was powerful, lumberjack solid, but his movements were unnervingly quiet, precise, as though every motion had been weighed and measured before he made it.
His boots sank into the earth with a heaviness that seemed deliberate, but his eyes, dark, steady, watchful, missed nothing.
And then there was the redhead. She moved with a feline grace, her hourglass frame accentuated by the cut of her aviator jacket, unzipped to reveal a plain black sports bra that bared pale, smooth skin to the cool night air.
Her leggings clung tight to her curves, boots laced high to her calves, every line of her body speaking confidence and control.
But it was her hair that drew the most attention, long, crimson waves catching firelight until it seemed as though her very head burned with embers. Her lips, full and smirking, curved as if she knew every secret in the clearing before anyone had spoken.
The campers' nerves twisted tighter.
"Bonsoir," the blonde called, his French accent wrapping warmly around the word. "Forgive us. We heard your music… the laughter. We live just down the road. Thought we'd join."
"Vodka," the redhead lifted a bottle, liquid glinting in the firelight. "And herbs, if anyone is curious."
A murmur rippled through the group. Someone whispered, "They're not rangers." Another, braver, said, "Hell, if they've got vodka, they're friends."
Tension gave way to curiosity, then excitement. The strangers were invited in.
The dreadlocked man lingered at the edge of the firelight, murmuring low in French to the blonde. "Doucement. Ne te précipite pas. Trop vite, et ils verront."
(Slow. Don't rush. Too fast, and they'll notice.)
The blonde smirked, eyes glinting. "Mais regarde-les. Ils sont adorables. Si faciles."
(But look at them. They're adorable. So easy.)
The redhead lowered herself onto a log near the fire, heat dancing over her skin. "You don't mind, do you?" she asked casually. "We could hear you half a mile away."
One boy shrugged, emboldened by her beauty. "Stay. The more, the merrier."
Vodka poured into cheap plastic cups. The blonde raised his in mock salute. "To new friends."
Laughter followed. Music resumed. Conversation thickened.
The blonde quickly found his target, a girl with dark hair and a nervous laugh. He moved closer, leaning in with a smile that never quite reached his eyes.
"You don't talk as much as the others," he teased. "Why?"
She flushed, brushing her hair back. "I don't know… I guess I just watch."
"Ah, an observer," he whispered. "That's dangerous. You'll notice too much. Or maybe… just enough."
Her laugh was breathless. "You're not like the others."
"No," he agreed softly. "I'm not." His fingers grazed hers as he passed her a drink, deliberate, lingering. "Do you trust me?"
She hesitated. Then, timidly, "I think so."
The dreadlocked man caught the exchange, muttering to the redhead, "Il joue trop. Elle va voir."
(He's playing too much. She'll notice.)
The redhead smirked faintly, watching the pair. "Laisse-le. Elle tombera quand même."
(Let him. She'll fall anyway.)
Minutes turned to half an hour. The vodka burned low, the herbs loosened tongues. One by one, campers drifted off, into the woods, toward tents, following the alluring strangers without question. A couple slipped away with the redhead, laughter fading into silence.
No one noticed they didn't return.
The blonde leaned against a tree, the girl beside him. His voice dropped, hushed and magnetic. "What do you want to know about me?"
She giggled nervously, her hand brushing his arm. "What can you do?"
His smile widened, sharp, dangerous. "You'd be surprised."
But before he could lean closer, the redhead appeared, sudden and silent. Her hand snapped forward—quick, brutal. The girl's neck broke with a sound that silenced the forest. She crumpled without a word.
The blonde's grin turned savage. He bent, teeth sinking deep into her throat. Warm blood spilled. He groaned with pleasure, pulling back with crimson lips.
"She's mine," the redhead said coolly, wiping her hand.
He licked his mouth, laughing low. "Jealous, mon amour?"
"Hardly," she replied, smirking.
The firelight danced as realization spread through the camp. A scream pierced the clearing. Someone shouted, "What the fuck are they doing?!"
Chaos erupted. Campers bolted into the trees, stumbling, shrieking, tripping over roots. Branches snapped, tents collapsed.
The dreadlocked man rose, eyes glinting, moving with predatory calm. He slipped into the woods, cutting them off. Panic grew louder, cries, gasps, the thud of feet colliding in the dark.
The blonde laughed, voice carrying. "Run! Yes, run! That makes it sweeter."
He caught one camper by the hair, dragging them back, teeth flashing. Another slammed into a tree, sobbing, before the redhead's hand covered their mouth and silenced them forever.
The forest came alive with terror, footsteps, breaking branches, ragged breaths. Every scream ended too abruptly.
[10 Minutes Later]
Then silence fell.
The clearing was a ruin.
Tents shredded, their nylon walls hanging in ribbons. Coolers overturned, cans scattered into the dirt. Branches splintered, claw-marks gouged deep into the trunks of trees, some so high up no human hand could have reached. The fire had collapsed into a heap of glowing coals, smoke curling thick and low, carrying the sharp metallic tang of blood.
Bodies lay where they had fallen, but not neatly. They were torn, strewn as though something massive had barreled through, a beast with fangs and claws and hunger too deep to satisfy.
The blonde crouched over one of the corpses, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing crimson across pale skin. He laughed softly, his voice still bright with intoxicated joy.
"Parfait. They'll never know. To them, it will be—" He dragged his fingers through one of the gouges in a nearby trunk. "—wolves. Or bears. Or something… monstrous."
The redhead was already pacing through the wreckage, her hair wild and gleaming like fire under the moon. She kicked at a half-collapsed tent until the poles snapped, the canvas crumpling over the shape inside. Her lips were still stained with blood, her tongue darting to savor it.
"They'll say it was an attack. They'll never say it was us." She turned, smirking, eyes catching the faint light. For a heartbeat, they glowed, red, sharp, like coals stoked deep in her skull.
The dreadlocked one lingered on the edge of the firelight, his heavy frame half-lost in shadow. His breathing was steady, as though he hadn't just hunted, hadn't just torn a screaming boy down in the dark. His eyes, too, gleamed faintly in the gloom, unnatural, feral. He watched the chaos with something like quiet satisfaction.
"Let the humans have their stories," he rumbled in French. "It will keep them out of the woods. Fear serves us better than secrecy."
The blonde leaned against the log, lips red, voice dripping with mockery. "Two boys joked that this was a horror movie. Said they'd survive." He laughed softly. "And now look. No credits. No survivors. Only us."
The redhead leaned into him, eyes dark with satisfaction. "They believed every word. Invited us in. Smiled as we took them apart. So gullible."
The dreadlocked man crouched by the fire, expression unreadable. "The bravest ones died first. The loudest fell just as easily. Pride made them blind."
The blonde tilted his head back, savoring the taste on his tongue.
"This is ecstasy. This is life. They thought they were the hunters, safe in their stories, safe in their laughter." He gestured at the darkened woods. "But the woods are ours."
The blonde stood, stretching languidly, his boots crunching through spilled glass and wet earth. "And yet… they were right, you know. Those boys, before." His grin widened, wolfish. "It did make a fine horror film."
The redhead laughed, a sharp, musical sound that sliced through the silence. She leaned into him, pressing her blood-slicked mouth to his in a kiss that was all teeth and hunger. When she pulled back, she whispered, "And every horror needs an ending."
The redhead kissed him again, lips crimson against crimson. Their laughter mingled, mocking, savoring.
The forest was quiet again. Too quiet. Only the predators remained.