The morning light filtered through the facility's blinds in fractured stripes, pale gold across Ethan Eldridge's face. He blinked, his body still heavy from last night's fight. His knuckles ached faintly from the blows he'd thrown. His ribs bore the dull echo of Jason's kicks. But it wasn't the bruises that made his chest tight.
It was the weight in his jacket pocket.
He had barely slept, one hand resting near the folded fabric the entire night. Every time he stirred, he'd feel for the recorder tucked inside—his proof, his lifeline. Jason Anderson's voice, cold and unhinged, captured in digital permanence. Proof that he wasn't imagining the darkness in Jason's eyes. Proof that Jason's games weren't just rivalry, but veiled murder.
"Kenji needs to hear this," Ethan muttered to himself. "He has to."
He sat up, running a hand through his Icelandic sweat-matted hair. The sun had just risen, but the halls were already echoing with the dull noise of early morning routines—shuffling footsteps, clattering trays in the cafeteria, the faint bark of Frank Michaels drilling the first rotation of kids outside.
Ethan reached into his jacket, heart steadying with determination. He pulled the recorder free.
And froze.
The smooth black plastic casing was warped. A sour chemical smell clung to it, sharp and acrid. The recorder's seams were melted, as though it had been left against an open flame. The once-clear red light indicator was nothing but a bubbled, blackened scar.
"No…" Ethan whispered, turning it over in his hands. His thumb brushed ash that flaked off onto his skin.
The recorder was dead.
Not just dead—destroyed.
Ethan stared, his wilderness-trained mind dissecting what he saw. This wasn't natural battery failure. This wasn't an accident from being carried through the woods. No, the destruction was too precise—timed, deliberate.
A trap inside a trap.
Jason had known. Of course he had. He'd known Ethan would grab the recorder, pocket it, keep it like some precious trophy of evidence. He'd planned for it to die in the night, leaving nothing but melted plastic and a sickly smell behind.
"Timed," Ethan muttered bitterly. "He rigged it."
His pulse quickened, not from fear but from the realization that Jason's reach went further than fists and taunts. He wasn't just playing psychological games—he was engineering the aftermath. Jason had already calculated Ethan's choices down to the hour.
And the worst part? Jason had been right about him. Ethan wasn't the type to go blabbing about his problems to others. Jason had gambled on that truth—and doubled down by stripping away Ethan's only proof.
Later that morning, Ethan drifted to the kitchenette again. He didn't know why. Maybe to see if the jars were really gone. Maybe to anchor his thoughts with something simple.
The shelf was still empty, as hollow as his chest felt.
Five jars before. Now three gone, deliberately displayed. The recorder had mentioned two left. Jason's mocking cadence echoed in his memory:
"If you feel confident in the wilderness, don't go back because of the bell—come further into the forest where I can end you… and enjoy the remaining two jars."
Ethan's jaw clenched. It wasn't just peanut butter. It was bait, it was symbolism, it was war. Jason was bleeding the ordinary out of his life until nothing was safe—not the woods, not food, not even trust.
As Ethan leaned against the counter, Kenji's voice from the other day resurfaced in his head: "Jason said you've been making late-night kitchen runs. Sunday nights, around nine-thirty. He's been watching patterns."
Kenji had laughed lightly when he said it, unaware of the weight. But now Ethan could hear it differently—Jason had wanted him to hear it.
The question pounded in his skull: Do I tell Kenji?
If he spoke now, without the recorder, it would sound like paranoia. "Jason stole my peanut butter and left threatening messages in the woods." It sounded insane, like a petty grudge magnified by bruises. Jason would deny it with that calm, predator's smile. And Kenji, who was already balancing so much, might just brush it off.
But if Ethan said nothing, Jason would keep escalating. And next time, it wouldn't be jars or recorders.
It would be blood.
Ethan gripped the edge of the counter, staring at his reflection in the microwave's dull steel door. His light blue eyes looked sharper than usual, touched by the coldness he normally reserved for surviving in the wilderness.
"Jason thinks I'll keep this to myself," Ethan whispered. "He thinks he knows me."
For once, he wasn't sure if proving Jason wrong meant telling Kenji—or waiting, hunting, and finding another way to catch Jason red-handed.
The cafeteria bell rang for breakfast. Conversations buzzed in the hall outside. Ethan slipped the charred recorder deeper into his pocket, its acrid scent still clinging to his fingers.
He stepped away from the counter, decision unresolved, but one thought burning like fire in his chest:
Jason Anderson was no rival.
He was a predator.
And predators could be hunted too.
The charred remains of the recorder burned in Ethan Eldridge's pocket all through breakfast. He barely tasted the eggs on his tray, barely heard the chatter of the other kids. His wilderness instincts told him to keep silent, to shoulder it alone, to adapt as he always had in the forest.
But Jason Anderson wasn't a bear or a storm to endure. He was something worse—human, cunning, deliberate.
Ethan looked across the cafeteria. Kenji Anderson was laughing with a group at his table, his voice carrying the same warmth it always did. Jason sat a little off to the side, leaning back in his chair with arms crossed, lips curled faintly as if the whole room was beneath his notice. His eyes flicked up for just a moment, catching Ethan's. Cold. Measuring.
Ethan clenched his jaw. He couldn't let Jason control the narrative.
After breakfast, Ethan slipped through the hall and caught Kenji near the stairwell.
"Kenji," he said quietly.
Kenji turned, light in his expression softening when he saw Ethan's seriousness. "What's up, Ethan?"
Ethan pulled the melted recorder halfway from his pocket, enough for Kenji to see the warped edges, before slipping it back. His voice was steady but low. "Jason's not just messing with me. He set a trap last night. Tried to lure me into the woods at curfew. Left a recorder with his voice—taunting, threatening. It burned out overnight. I don't know how, but it's gone now. All that's left are three empty peanut butter jars and his words in my head."
Kenji's eyes narrowed slightly, his warmth dimming. "You're sure?"
"You know I don't make things up." Ethan's voice hardened. "This isn't about peanut butter. He's escalating, Kenji. He wants me to think he's serious about killing me."
Kenji was quiet for a long moment, weighing Ethan's words.
Finally, he exhaled. "I believe you."
Relief flickered across Ethan's face. But Kenji wasn't finished.
"There's… there's more to Jason than you realize. I'm not going into details—not now. But he's been through things, Ethan. Things from when we were younger. Traumas." Kenji's voice softened, carrying a heavy note Ethan hadn't heard before. "It was my idea to bring him here. I thought if I kept him close, I could help. That's on me."
Ethan's brow furrowed. "You think you can just talk him down?"
Kenji nodded slowly. "I'll handle it. I'll talk to him privately. You don't have to carry this alone, but… don't spread it either. Jason's still my little brother."
Jason Anderson is a human to what type?
Not just any types. The types that can be engineered. The types on cognitive decline that felt they could encroach and prey on others just because they felt they could get away with it.
Ethan studied Kenji's face, then gave a reluctant nod. He trusted Kenji. But he didn't trust Jason. Not for a second.
Later that day, Kenji found Jason leaning against the brick wall outside the gym, hands in his pockets, eyes following a group of students passing by.
"Jason," Kenji called.
Jason turned, puffing his cheek slightly, biting the inside like he always did when caught off guard. His face softened into something almost innocent. "What's wrong, big bro?"
Kenji folded his arms, expression firm. "You tried to set up Ethan last night."
Jason tilted his head, blinking slowly, as if the accusation were absurd. "Set him up? I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't lie to me." Kenji's voice was steady, not angry—just certain. "You're calculated. I've known that for a long time now. I don't care about the peanut butter. I care that you baited him. I care that you're trying to harm him. There's no reason for it, Jason."
Jason's façade cracked for a heartbeat, his eyes flashing with the sharpness of someone who had already been cornered in his mind. He looked away, jaw tightening, before forcing a smile. "You think I'd waste my time on Ethan? Come on, Kenji. He's soft. Too careful. Why would I bother?"
Kenji stepped closer, his voice lowering. "Because you want to test him. Because you're restless. Because you've been carrying something dark since we were young, and instead of facing it, you take it out on people who don't deserve it."
Jason's eyes flicked back to Kenji's, the act slipping further. His hands twitched at his sides before he shoved them deeper into his pockets. "You don't know what's going through my mind."
"I want to." Kenji's voice softened, the authority giving way to brotherly care. "That's why I'm pulling you aside. Because I care. You're my little brother. But I won't let you cross the line into hurting people who trust me."
For a long, tense moment, Jason just stared at him, his cheeks puffed faintly as he chewed the inside of his mouth. The mask of innocence warred with the predator behind his eyes.
Finally, Jason let out a low chuckle. "You think you've got me figured out, huh?" His smile was sharp, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You're still the only one I'll listen to, big bro. But don't mistake that for weakness."
Kenji held his gaze, unmoving. "I'm not asking you to be weak. I'm asking you to stop before you do something you can't take back."
Jason leaned his head back against the wall, exhaling slowly through his nose, as though releasing tension. "Fine. I'll leave Ethan alone… for now."
Kenji didn't relax. He knew that "for now" carried more weight than it should.
That evening, Ethan sat outside under the fading light, staring at the tree line where Jason had lured him the night before. The wind rustled the leaves, and for a moment, he thought he could still hear Jason's recorded voice echoing: "Is the wilderness your cage?"
Kenji had said he'd handle it. But Ethan knew predators didn't change with a single conversation.
Jason had been tested, cornered, and exposed. And men like Jason never forgot when they lost control of the game.
Ethan rubbed his sore knuckles, eyes still fixed on the trees. He didn't know when Jason would move again—but he knew he would.
And next time, it wouldn't be about peanut butter.