Sangay Glass's Blog - Posts Tagged "survival"

There’s something undeniably captivating about morally grey characters—the ones who live in the shadows between right and wrong, between justice and vengeance.

The ones who don’t ask for redemption because they don’t believe they need it.

In the heart of the Adirondack wilderness, Candice and Randal are not heroes. They are not villains. They are survivors. But survival, in their world, comes with a price.

Candice: The Girl Who Won’t Be Prey

Candice isn’t your typical final girl. She doesn’t run. She doesn’t hide. She doesn’t beg for her life—she manipulates the game until the killers believe they’ve won.

Her detachment isn’t just a coping mechanism; it’s a weapon. She sees the world through a fractured lens—emotion at arm’s length, reality blurred, survival a calculation.

Is she a victim? Yes. Is she a monster? Maybe. But she’s not about to let anyone decide for her.

Does Candice want justice, or does she want revenge? And is there really a difference when nine women are buried in the dirt?

Randal: The Unreliable Ally

Randal isn’t a knight in shining armor—more like a wolf in borrowed sheep’s clothing. He’s a man with blood on his hands, with secrets buried deep, a man who may not even trust himself. And yet, in Candice’s world, he is the closest thing to safety.

He is calculating but protective, loyal but dangerous. He’s not here to save anyone. He’s here because he’s made his choice: Candice or nothing.

But when the line between protector and predator is so razor-thin, can Candice truly trust him?

Why We Love (and Fear) Morally Grey Characters

Morally grey characters challenge us. They make us question our own morality, force us to consider what we’d do in their place.

Candice and Randal exist in a world where survival isn’t about being good—it’s about being smart, ruthless, and willing to do whatever it takes.

They don’t fit into tidy boxes. They don’t care about being likable. But they are unforgettable.

So the question remains: How far would you go to survive? And more importantly—who would you become?

There is nothing more dangerous than a woman detached from her body and emotions.

Detachment isn’t just Candice’s coping mechanism—it’s her weapon.

In the brutal, shifting landscape of the Adirondacks, where killers think they’re in control, Candice’s ability to separate from pain, from fear, from the moment itself, is the one thing keeping her alive.

She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t hesitate. She calculates.

Most people rely on fight or flight. Candice exists in something else entirely—a limbo between survival and surrender, where she can play the long game without getting lost in the weight of the moment.
Trauma didn’t just break her; it shaped her into something unpredictable, something unreadable.

And that makes her more dangerous than the predators hunting her.

Because she isn’t their prey. She’s hunting, too.

Survival in the wilderness is brutal.

Survival in the wilderness while being hunted by a serial killer?

That’s the kind of nightmare that should leave a person raw, terrified, and hyper-focused on staying alive.

But Candice? She trips over tree roots, gets stuck in her rain gear, names her kayak. She even delivers some of the most darkly comedic one-liners while actively outmaneuvering men who want her dead.

That’s the paradox of Candice.

Her physical antics—stumbling, slipping, getting tangled, or flat-out sabotaging herself. It all might seem like classic slapstick, but it's wrapped in the eerie detachment of someone who has spent her life walking a razor-thin edge between survival and surrender.

Her mind is calculating, always searching for an exit, but her body? Her body plays along with whatever chaos the wilderness and her own poor decisions throw at her.

Her humor is sharp, often self-deprecating, and almost always a defense mechanism.

When she lets out a deadpan “Well, that’s unfortunate” after realizing she’s stuck in deep water with a rogue kayak, or cracks a joke about her inability to properly portage said kayak, it’s not just funny—it’s a coping mechanism.

The humor isn’t just for the reader; it’s for her. It’s her way of staying in control when the world (and the killer stalking her) want nothing more than to take that control away.

Candice’s detachment doesn’t just make her fearless—it makes her unpredictable. While others would freeze in terror, she’s making offhanded quips, distracting her enemies, or pulling off some utterly ridiculous stunt that somehow, against all odds, works in her favor.

There’s a fine line between survivalist and wildcard, and Candice blurs that line with an almost reckless determination.

At the core of her dark humor is a simple truth: she refuses to let fear define her.

She’s spent too long as someone’s target, and if she’s going down, she’ll go down with a smirk, a sarcastic remark, and maybe a clumsy fall into the mud for good measure.

In the end, Candice isn’t just surviving—she’s flipping the script.

And if that means laughing in the face of danger while physically making a mess of things?

Well, she’ll take that over screaming any day.

Ledge Pond> A psychological Thriller > Sangay Glass> March 12, 2025

Candice doesn’t live in a world of clear-cut heroes and villains. She’s surrounded by morally gray characters, people whose motivations shift like the wind through the Adirondack pines. Some are killers. Some are liars.
Some might just be the difference between life and death.

But how do you trust someone when you don’t even trust yourself?

Randal is a perfect example. He’s not a villain, but he’s no hero either. He’s done things. Bad things. And

Candice knows it. So why does she need him? Why does she want to believe in him, even when every instinct tells her to run?

Because sometimes, in a world where monsters exist, you don’t need a hero—you need someone just dangerous enough to stand beside you.

Would you trust a morally gray character if your life depended on it?

In thrillers, final confrontations aren’t just about the fight—they’re about the last word. That one line that cuts deeper than any knife, the one that reminds the villain exactly why they lost. It’s the verbal dagger that seals the moment in cinematic, spine-chilling glory.

Some go for cold and calculated:
"You should have buried me deeper."

Some go for ironic:
"Guess I wasn’t the easy target you thought."

Some, like Candice, lean into dark humor
"You should have pushed me three skateboards to the left."

A final girl, an anti-hero, or even a villain—whoever gets the last word wields the real power.

So, let’s hear it. If you were the last one standing in a thriller, what would YOUR victory one-liner be before delivering the final blow? Drop it in the comments!

Ledge Pond

Last week, I lost internet service and had to prep my book launch from my phone. Disaster. I couldn't read the small print. I missed errors. I hit the wrong button and accidentally published too soon—with no way to fix it for days. I almost wanted to cry. Almost.

But my MC, Candice, wouldn't cry. And I am Candice.

So, I reset. Adjusted. Took risks. Gave out proof copies that weren’t ready. Hustled to find and make fixes the second my service came back.

And now, just one week later—everything is in place. Got my service back and did a real read through on my computer. This morning, I finally hit publish with confidence.

I can breathe. Now the real work begins.

To anyone feeling like they’re drowning in setbacks—take a breath, pivot, and push forward. You’ve got this.

Ledge Pond

Thrillers and romance—two genres that don’t often go hand in hand, yet when they do, they create something raw, intense, and unforgettable. Love isn’t always found in candlelit dinners or whispered sweet nothings. Sometimes, it’s forged in survival, in standing side by side when the world closes in, in knowing—no matter what happens—you are not alone.

In my books, love isn’t about grand gestures or easy, uncomplicated devotion. It’s about the kind of loyalty that holds steady when everything else falls apart. The men in my stories aren’t perfect. They’re flawed, sometimes morally gray, sometimes dangerous—but their devotion is absolute. Not because they want to possess or control, but because they see the women they love, scars and all, and stay.

True love isn’t about fixing someone. It’s about walking beside them through the storm, giving them the space to heal without letting them drown. It’s about trust—the real, tested kind that survives fear, violence, and betrayal.

Because even in the darkest stories, love should never be a trap. It should be the light you fight toward.

What are your favorite examples of love in thriller romances? Do you think loyalty can thrive in the most dangerous settings? Let’s talk about it.

Romance has conditioned us to believe love is proven through: Ownership. Protection. Gifts.

But true devotion isn’t about any of that. It’s about presence.

Randal isn’t a billionaire with an over-the-top proposal. He doesn’t stake his claim on Candice like she’s a prize to be won.

He’s simply there. Consistently. Unwaveringly. Through fear, through uncertainty, through moments when she’s sure she should run.

Love, at its purest, isn’t about extravagant gifts or grand declarations.

It’s about showing up when it matters.

It’s about standing beside someone, not in front of them as a shield or behind them as a captor.

Women deserve love that isn’t a prize but a partnership.

Love that isn’t about holding them back but holding them steady - holding them up when they need it.

Maybe it’s time we start craving devotion over dominance.

Maybe it’s time we stop looking for men who possess us—and start choosing men who see us.

There’s something about a love story that isn’t soft. One that isn’t all sunshine and whispered promises over candlelit dinners.

No, the kind of love that sticks—that burns—is the kind that’s forged in stone, in blood, in battle scars.

It’s the kind of love that knows pain. That understands sacrifice. That thrives in the shadows of shared experience, where trust isn’t given—it’s earned.

And if it’s earned, it’s fought for. If it’s fought for, it’s worth everything.

That’s Candice and Randal. Their bond isn’t built on easy romance or fleeting infatuation. It’s something darker, something deeper—a collision of two people who see each other for what they really are. Flawed. Dangerous. Unapologetically human.

Nothing says I love you like covering up a crime scene together.

Maybe love isn’t always about being good together.

Maybe it’s about knowing someone will stand by your side when the bodies start piling up.

Maybe it’s about finding someone who would kill and die for you.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s the only kind of love that ever really lasts.

There is a goodreads giveaway for Ledge Pond going on. Follow me for details. I'm also always open to questions.

Ledge Pond