The bus sighed to a stop at the edge of a nearly empty lot, its brakes letting out a low hiss as the engine rumbled into silence. Out front, the gas station's sign blinked on and off, one fluorescent letter short of working, casting the fog in a faint, jaundiced glow. Most of the building was swallowed by the mist; only the edges were visible, like it had been sketched in and left unfinished.

No one spoke for a second.

Inside the bus, it was dim and close, warm with the scent of skin, stale air, and the trail mix someone had spilled earlier that afternoon. The fog had been thick for miles, growing heavier with every passing hour, and now that they were parked, it pressed up against the windows like it was trying to see inside.

Oscar was the first to stand.

"Okay, no," he muttered, already halfway down the aisle. "I have to piss, but I'm not walking into that Children of the Corn shit alone."

Diego, seated near the front with his hoodie pulled over half his head and his phone tucked to his ear, barely looked up. He waved Oscar off, mouthing something that might have been "on the phone" before turning back to his conversation in rapid, tired Spanish.

Oscar hesitated at the steps. "Dude. Diego. Bro." He gestured toward the door. "You know this is exactly how people die, right? Some weird fog, an abandoned-ass gas station, me in basketball shorts. I'm the first to go."

He received no sympathy.

With a groan, Brian shoved himself upright and rolled his shoulders until they cracked. "Jesus, Oscar, I'll go with you," he muttered. "You sound like a child.""Children don't die first," Oscar pointed out as the door wheezed open. "Hot, unproblematic side characters do."

Brian was already halfway down the stairs. The fog swallowed them both in seconds. A few murmured voices floated back from the mist, then nothing.

You hadn't moved. Your legs were tucked up beneath you on the bench, the oversized hoodie you always wore wrapped loosely around your arms. The light above your seat buzzed softly, catching in the strands of hair that had slipped loose around your face.

Judas sat at the back of the bus, slouched low in his corner with his legs stretched out and one hand curled around the drumstick balanced across his thigh. He'd been quiet most of the ride — not unusual, not unexpected — just steady. Watching the fog roll in like he could hear something in it the rest of you couldn't.

His gaze shifted when you stood. Not dramatically, just enough to track you.

The moment the door opened again, cold air spilled inside. All damp and thick, smelling faintly of oil and something older underneath. You reached for the railing.

Judas didn't move. Not until you did.