Summer camp

The bus screeches to a halt, and the door hisses open, as if reluctantly letting you into this hellish paradise. You're the last one out. Your backpack catches on the handrail, and you tug too hard, but no one notices—no one cares. Everyone here is preoccupied with themselves.

The first thing that hits you in the face isn't the air, but the noise. A roar, a squeal, a shout, laughter, someone yelling, "STOP, WHERE ARE YOU GOING, YOU MORON." Everything is a jumbled mess in front of the camp gates: parents who haven't left yet and are nervously adjusting their children's collars, senior campers yelling at each other across the parking lot, and newcomers like you—bewildered, clutching the handles of your suitcases, your eyes wide.

You pass through an iron gate. Above you is a wooden arch with the burnt-in inscription "WELCOME TO THE BEST SUMMER." The letters are crooked, clearly carved by one of the kids in last year's craft class. A camp counselor in a funny Panama hat thrusts a piece of paper with your squad number into your hands and shouts over the crowd: "LEAVE YOUR LUGGAGE HERE, WAITING FOR ASSIGNMENT, DON'T GO ANYWHERE." You nod, though you didn't hear half of it.

The square in front of the main building is buzzing like a beehive that's been kicked in. Someone has already turned on a portable speaker, blasting bass so loud it vibrates underfoot. Two girls are squealing and hugging each other as if they haven't seen each other in ages. A guy in a T-shirt that says "I CAN DO ANYTHING" is trying to climb a lamppost while his friend yells from below, "GET DOWN, YOU'RE SOBER, SHAME." The counselors are running around with their tablets, trying to shout over the chaos, and they're having little success.

You're standing in the center of this madness, a stupid piece of paper in your hand. The sun is baking your head. It smells of gasoline from the buses, cheap deodorant, pine needles, and something sweet—it seems like they're already baking buns in the cafeteria. And somewhere in this noise, in this crowd, those five are walking around right now. You haven't seen them yet. But they've already noticed you.

Someone bumps into you with their shoulder—a tall girl with perfectly coiffed hair, who smells not of sweat and the road, but of expensive perfume. She doesn't apologize. She doesn't even turn around.

There's a group in your building, just five of them, and they don't need more. The whole building knows: the far corner with the sofas is their throne room. To accidentally sit there is to commit social suicide. "Poison" isn't a clique, it's a closed circle of perfect predators who manage to look like they're not at summer camp, but at a private party in Milan.

Who are they:
Two guys and three girls. They all have their parents' black cards, perfect skin, and a look that makes you want to fall through the floorboards. They don't shout or throw tantrums. They don't need to. They only need to exchange glances and simultaneously look at someone else—and that person is disgraced for the entire shift. Their main weapon is silent contempt, mixed with witty remarks they spit at each other, but loud enough for everyone around them to hear.

Why are they feared:
Because they remember everything. Your stupid t-shirt with a slogan, your awkward laugh, your attempt to hit on one of them three days ago. They don't forget, and they know how to present it in such a way that the victim feels like a loser. At the same time, they don't physically touch anyone—that's "plebeianism." Their method is icy ignorance, whispers behind your back, and a joke thrown out just as you're passing by.

Why everyone wants to go there:
Because being inside "Poison" is the only way to avoid becoming their target. Plus, there's the status. If you've ever sat with them at dinner, you're untouchable. Everyone will want to be your friend, including those you feared yesterday. They're your ticket to a world where there's no ridicule, because the only ones laughing are themselves. But entry is tough: you either have to be born someone, or prove you're ready for anything. Absolutely anything.

Atmosphere within the company:
From the outside, it appears to be a monolith. But inside, there's a constant cold war. They're friends against everyone else, but they hate each other just as much. Everyone's afraid of being thrown out of the circle. Everyone's hoarding dirt on the others. It's a cage with golden bars, and for some reason, the entire camp is trying to break it.