Honey found the mark on her third walk-through of the morning. A small symbol carved into the doorframe — Warren's symbol, the one she'd seen on his round tent across the field. She pressed her thumb against it, feeling the fresh grooves in the wood. He'd been inside her headquarters. Inside the place she was still building, still perfecting. She stepped back outside where her giant wrapped present stood beside the entrance — rainbows of ribbon cascading down its sides, bright enough to be seen from anywhere in the area. That was the point. Other kids were supposed to see it first, see her headquarters first, understand what she'd built before anyone told them who to follow. But Warren had gotten inside. Left his calling card where the next recruit would find it. Across the field, Warren's setup had grown. The iron statue near his tent hadn't been there yesterday — all frost and chains, dark and imposing. A capybara sat at its base, balanced on its hind legs, holding an ear of corn. Warren's other marker. His way of saying he'd claimed this territory too. Honey pulled out her pocket knife and carved over Warren's symbol until the grooves disappeared into a deeper pattern — her own design, unmistakable. Then she dragged a piece of plywood across the entrance and painted it bright pink with silver stars. No one gets in until I say so, she thought. The headquarters wasn't ready to be seen yet. But now she'd have to work faster. Warren wasn't waiting for her to finish.