Luis adjusted his glasses, the dim glow of the campfire casting shadows across his face. At 28, he was the planner, the one who always kept the group grounded. Beside him sat Nica, her dark eyes scanning the jungle's edge, her fingers nervously twisting a lock of her hair. She was the heart of their group, fiercely loyal but haunted by a past she rarely spoke of. Miguel, the charming dreamer, strummed a guitar, his voice soft as he sang an old Filipino love song. And then there was Santos—quiet, intense, his piercing gaze always seeming to hide something.The four had been inseparable since high school, but life had scattered them. This camping trip was meant to reconnect, a nostalgic escape to the jungles near San Isidro, where they'd once sworn to be friends forever. The Crimson Moon was just a week away, and the town buzzed with warnings. "Stay out of the jungle," the elders said. "The spirits are restless.""Superstition," Miguel scoffed, tossing a stick into the fire. "It's just a red moon."Nica shivered. "I don't know, Mig. The air feels… heavy."Santos smirked, his voice low. "Maybe it's just your guilt talking, Nica."Luis shot him a look. "Ease up, Santos. We're here to have fun."But the tension lingered. Nica had been distant lately, her smiles forced. Luis noticed the way she avoided Santos' gaze, and Miguel's playful flirting with her seemed to carry an edge of desperation. Something was wrong, but no one wanted to say it.
