Previously on SURVIVE: The Island

Gather close, and I’ll tell you of the aftermath of the storm that twisted the island’s fate; a tale of choices, terror, and the secrets yet to unfold.

Graham found himself in a void, walking the line between salvation and doom, and when he returned, it was Ian who saved him. But the bond between them may yet fray, and the jungle waited, ready to split them apart. Jordan, emboldened after the storm, faced a woman at the waterfall; hostile and fierce. Nearby, Jim and Travis stood their ground against a monstrous beast, their courage tested in the suffocating dark.

Deep underground, Chris, Jill, and Mayoli wandered into a labyrinth of obsidian, where the walls seemed alive, shifting to trap the unwary. On a sinking ship, Cowin, Jordanna, Lauren, and Andrew were hounded by the cursed whispers of the bone-dust circle. There too: Sara M, who drifted in a nightmare, trapped in the haze of sleep, her soul tethered to the ship’s watery grave.

Beneath the stone slab, Chelsea and Peter uncovered a spiralling staircase, its glowing inscriptions hiding riddles and doom, while Michelle, abandoned by the storm, watched Kate flee to her fate; consumed by the shadowy figure. Kate’s death saved Andrea, but at what cost? And on the shore, Boon, Bryan, Rosendo, and the marked—Mayo, Mike, Tyfanna, and Paul—wrestled with the madness creeping into their minds.

The storm may be gone, but so was another player. 24 remain. Now the island’s whispers grow louder, and true horrors are waiting. Are you brave enough to keep reading?

Jump to:
Jim & Travis
Michelle
Jordan, Andrea, Boon & Mayo
Rosendo, Bryan & Mike
Ian & Graham
Paul & Tyfanna
Chris, Jill & Mayoli
Peter & Chelsea
Andrew, Cowin, Jordanna & Lauren
Sara M

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Part 1: The Beast’s Shadow

(Travis & Jim)

Travis’s Perspective
The jungle presses in, its humid darkness clinging to your skin. The lightning is gone, leaving only void. Jim’s silhouette looms beside you, his ragged breathing the only sound beyond the restless night. The creature circles, its glowing eyes twin embers of malice. Your fists tremble, but you force a smile, a fragile shield against the fear gnawing at your ribs. Each growl tightens the noose of panic around your mind.

And then it lunges.

A blur of shadow and fangs. Its weight slams into you, knocking the breath from your lungs. Pain ignites as its jaws crush down on your arm; teeth sinking deep, fire lancing through nerves. Your scream cuts through the jungle, but it’s more than pain; something cold, alien, pulses through the wound. Not words, yet it speaks. A vile whisper unspooling in the depths of your mind, twisting, burrowing, unraveling you.

Your vision wavers. Your knees give. Jim shouts; desperate, furious. A crack… wood or bone? The beast yelps, its weight ripping away. But the whisper lingers, coiling deeper as blood drips, thick and slow, down your arm.

Jim’s Perspective
You swing blindly into the dark, the jagged branch a desperate weapon in your hands. Every nerve is taut, every movement driven by the raw instinct to survive. The beast’s glowing blue eyes flicker through the gloom, each low growl a countdown to the inevitable. You tighten your grip, bracing to attack.

Then it strikes.

The creature crashes into Travis, dragging him down before you can react. His scream tears through the humid air, shattering what little composure you had left. Your body moves before thought; one step forward, branch raised high, adrenaline transmuting fear into fury.

Wood meets skull. A sickening crack splits the jungle. The beast reels, snarling, but it doesn’t flee. Its glowing eyes lock onto yours, hatred simmering in their depths, before it melts into the shadows, leaving only the ragged sound of your breathing.

You turn to Travis. He kneels, clutching his arm, blood slick between his fingers. But it’s not just the wound. His eyes dart, unfocused, fixed on something unseen. His body trembles, as if unseen hands are pulling him apart. Three paths stand before them.

Travis & Jim’s Options

1. Tend to Travis’s injury here: His wound looks worse by the second; infected, or worse, cursed. You could try to clean and bandage it, but resources are scarce, and staying here leaves them exposed. Yet ignoring the bite could doom Travis entirely.
2. Return to the clearing: The clearing might offer safety, or at least the familiarity of other survivors. The creature could circle back. What if the others aren’t there; or worse, what if Travis’s condition worsens before they arrive?
3. Pursue the creature: There’s an unnatural pull now, a whisper in Travis’s mind that urges him toward the jungle’s depths. Answers may lie ahead, but so do greater dangers. Following the creature would risk both your lives, but it may be the only way to understand what’s happening to Travis.

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Part 2: Beneath the Crimson Canopy

(Michelle only)

Moments earlier
The storm still rages, a living beast tearing through the jungle as you sprint into the madness. Each step is defiance—against the chaos, against Kate’s descent, against the ruins of your fragile haven. Rain lashes your skin like a whip, the wind howling with unseen voices that drive you deeper into the island’s heart.

The storm begins to wane. Branches snap beneath your feet, brittle as bones. Shadows shift—monstrous shapes that flicker and vanish. Every breath is fire in your chest, but you push forward, survival burning in your veins. Somewhere in the distance, guttural cries cut through the dying wind. Danger is never far.

Then, through the thinning canopy, a crimson glow beckons.

You stumble into a clearing. A gasp catches in your throat. A towering tree looms before you, its dark red bark slick with glistening black sap. It pulses, slow and steady, like a heartbeat. The Bloodwood Tree. You know its name without knowing why. The setting sun paints the jungle in an unearthly light, thick with a hum of ancient power—foreboding yet irresistible.

Awe knots with fear. The tree is both beautiful and menacing, its presence undeniable. Power older than the storm, older than the island itself, thrums in the air, thick with unspoken promises. Truth or lies. Past or future. But at what cost?

Your hands tremble. The tree waits. The jungle watches. The island does not forgive hesitation.

Michelle’s Options

1. Seek Refuge Beneath the Bloodwood Tree: Your body screams for rest, and the tree’s towering form offers the closest thing to shelter you’ve found. You could collapse at its base, gathering your strength and surveying the area. But in your vulnerable state, you risk exposure to unseen threats lurking in the jungle.
2. Consume the Sap of the Bloodwood Tree: The glowing sap pulses with a strange allure—it could hold the key to the island’s secrets or the path to your survival. But the risks are high. The visions it promises might reveal the truth, or they could drown you in deception or madness. The sap might grant clarity, or it could steal your sanity—or your life.
3. Flee the Bloodwood Tree: The crimson glow churns something deep within you, a warning more than an invitation. You could just run past the tree, and keep running, seeking safety in the distance. But you are already weak, the jungle is endless, and the answers you desperately need may slip further from your reach.

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Part 3: Chance Encounters

(Jordan, Andrea, Mayo & Boon)

Jordan’s Perspective
The jungle blurs past, pulsing against your skin as you tear through the underbrush. Her face is seared into your thoughts—eyes burning with fury and desperation so tangible it drove you to act. Behind you, her voice shrieks through the foliage: “AAAYOOOODAMAAAAAAY!” The words mean nothing. You don’t care. They are just echoes in the chaos.

It’s time to go. Every fiber of your being screams for escape.

Branches slash at your arms, thin lines of fire in their wake. Roots clutch at your feet, twisting, grasping, trying to drag you back into the jungle’s depths. The air is thick, heavy with damp earth and humidity, choking your lungs. But you don’t stop. You can’t stop. The thrum of the jungle surrounds you, a relentless cacophony of unseen creatures, whispering leaves, the pulse of something alive.

Then—the crash of waves. Louder. Closer.

Relief surges through you. Then shatters.

She stands motionless on the sand. Hair plastered to her face, trembling hands grasping at nothing. At first, she doesn’t see you. Her eyes are glazed, unfocused. But then—her gaze meets yours.

Your heart lurches. No recognition. Only a hollow stare that chills deeper than the storm. Her mouth moves soundlessly, arms curling around herself like a broken doll.

Instinct screams at you to help. But something stops you.

She looks… wrong.

Jerky movements. A marionette with cut strings.

Dangerous? Or just shattered?

Then—movement. Voices. Human voices.

The shock slams into you.

You thought you were alone.

You were wrong.

Andrea’s Perspective
The figure in the storm is gone, but it lingers, burned into your vision like staring at the sun too long. Its twisted, unnatural form refuses to fade. Your limbs are heavy, your thoughts even heavier—an unseen weight pressing down, making it hard to breathe. The storm battered your body, but the true damage festers deeper, beneath layers of denial and confusion.

A man approaches. But he looks wrong. Blurred. Distorted. A ghostly reflection in a cracked mirror. Your disarrayed mind struggles to anchor itself in reality. He doesn’t belong here—you can feel it, an instinct gnawing at the edges of your awareness. His words come fragmented, frayed, slipping between the cracks of comprehension. Yet even in his silence, there’s hesitation, a tremor of doubt amidst the chaos.

He doesn’t trust you.

You don’t blame him.

Something inside you has shifted—an unseen fracture, a fault line deep beneath the surface. The shadow that nearly consumed you has left a mark. A stain. A residue of fear and uncertainty you can’t wash off.

Before either of you speak, voices drift through the air. Familiar. Wrong. Twisted echoes, as if the island itself is mocking them. The sound coils around you, weaving through memories you’d rather forget. They taunt you, dangling fragments of a past that feels impossibly distant—simpler times, clarity. But all you can grasp is the uncertainty clinging to your skin like the humid air.

The confrontation is inevitable. It hangs heavy between you and the stranger, a weight neither of you can outrun.

Mayo’s Perspective
Boon’s voice is distant, muffled, as if you’re submerged underwater. His words slip past, drowned by the fog coiling through your mind. The bone-dust circle… it’s still there, crawling beneath your skin, twisting in your veins. Every step is a battle. The jungle’s whispers tighten around your thoughts like serpents, squeezing out your will.

You close your eyes—and the world shatters.

Blue lightning pulses in the dark, revealing impossible shapes, shifting landscapes, faces that shouldn’t exist. They flicker beyond the veil of reality, twisting like dying embers from a forgotten fire. Each flash is both wonder and terror, an eerie beauty that threatens to consume you whole; challenging the very essence of what you know to be true.

What if this is real?

The visions feel real. More real than the ground beneath you, than the air in your lungs. They claw at your sanity, filling the cracks in your mind. You grasp at fleeting moments of clarity, but they slip through your fingers like grains of sand.

The jungle’s silence roars—a vast, empty howl echoing the chaos within.

Boon is the only thing tethering you to reality, a fragile anchor in a world unraveling. His presence flickers against the tide, but even he begins to fade under the weight of the encroaching dark. The jungle’s pulse grows louder, as if urging you to let go. Each moment near him warps the line between truth and illusion. Is his concern real? Or just another shadow waiting to swallow you whole?

Boon’s Perspective
The beach lies unnervingly still, the storm’s fury swallowed by silence. You’ve guided Mayo back, but she’s different. The sharpness in her gaze is gone, her steps falter as if she’s forgotten how to walk. Once-bright eyes now clouded, distant. The fire inside her—dimmed.

You glance back, half-expecting shadows to spill from the jungle. Nothing. Just the crawling sense of unseen eyes, watching. Waiting. The unease prickles your skin, sets your pulse hammering.

You’re exhausted, but there’s no rest. This island is a lie, a beautiful deception wrapped around something rotten. The others are scattered, ghostly remnants of themselves, lost in the madness that coils through the air like a lingering storm. Thunder still grumbles at the edge of the horizon, a distant, restless thing.

And Mayo… she’s slipping. Each step pulls her further from reality, her movements dreamlike, as if wading through something unseen. You want to help her. You should help her. But a cold, gnawing suspicion digs its claws into you—she isn’t the same. Feels more specter than survivor, her presence shifting, wrong in a way you can’t name. The thought chills you: she’s dangerous.

Then—movement. A rustle in the underbrush. A shadow flickering between the trees.

Your breath catches as Andrea emerges from the jungle. Hours have passed, horrors have passed, since you last saw her at the shipwreck. And behind her, another figure steps forward—face obscured, unfamiliar. A stranger.

Your stomach knots.

Something in Andrea’s posture is off, her presence no longer a relief but a question. The bond forged in survival feels thinner now, frayed at the edges. Has she come to save you? Or is she bringing something worse?

The air thickens.

You stand at the edge of something—past alliances and new threats colliding in the space between heartbeats. And you realize, too late—there’s no safe ground left to stand on.

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The beach sprawls before them, an empty stretch of golden sand, the tide pulling back like a slow retreating breath. The setting sun bleeds orange across the horizon, staining the sky in fire and fading light. Behind them, the jungle shifts, creaks, breathes—its shadows lengthening, thick with unseen things that stir just out of sight.

Jordan, Andrea, Boon, and Mayo stand together, their fragile trust unraveling thread by thread. The storm has passed, but its absence feels worse. The air is wrong—charged with something colder than wind, darker than nightfall.

The jungle hums. Alive.

Then—far off—a scream.

It carves through the silence, jagged and raw. Too human for an animal. Too animal to be human.

It lingers, twisting in the air like something unfinished.

No one speaks.

No one moves.

Jordan, Andrea, Mayo & Boon’s Options

1. Hold your position, keeping watch through the night: The jungle seems alive, but staying put is your only chance of survival. If you stay strong, you might outlast whatever’s coming. The group must endure the night on the beach, fending off fatigue, fear, and the creeping chill.
2. Gather materials to create a shelter to shield you from whatever else the night might bring: Nightfall brings a cold, oppressive darkness. The beach offers little protection, and the jungle may hide dangers. The group must use what they can find—wood, leaves, vines—to build a makeshift shelter before nightfall.
3. Stop to discuss what you know about the island: The island is strange, its silence eerie. There’s something about this place that doesn’t add up. You must work together to figure out what’s really going on before the night traps you.

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Part 4: The Weight of Secrets

(Rosendo, Bryan & Mike)

Rosendo’s Perspective
The weight of the map and key presses against your side like a secret too dangerous to share. Every step through the jungle is careful, half instinct, half strategy. The sun dips lower, dragging the light with it, shadows stretching long and hungry.

You feel Bryan’s and Mike’s eyes on you. Heavy. Watchful. Their presence is more burden than help. The key you found in the wreckage burns in your pocket. You haven’t told them about it—not the whole truth, anyway. The thought of revealing it twists your stomach into knots.

Bryan watches too closely, tracking your every movement. Suspicious. Calculating. Mike, though, mutters under his breath. Low, garbled things that don’t always make sense. Sometimes it sounds like he’s talking to someone who isn’t there. And you’re not sure what’s worse: his unraveling sanity or the weight of what you’re hiding.

You keep your eyes forward. Focus on the thinning light as it slinks through the canopy. Every rustle, every shifting shadow, feels like the jungle is watching. Closing in.

You want to push ahead. Leave them behind. Take the map and run. But alone, you’re a target. Vulnerable. You glance back—Bryan’s eyes narrow. Mike grips his toolbox like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

The choice tightens around you like a trap. Reveal the truth? Risk what they’ll do? Or keep them guessing—let them believe you’re just as lost as they are?

The jungle creeps closer. The light is dying. So is time.

Bryan’s Perspective
You’ve been watching Rosendo closely. There’s something about him—too focused, too calm, and always hiding something. He doesn’t share his thoughts, and it gnaws at you. Every glance you steal in his direction reveals the same thing: he’s holding something back. The map in his hands? The key hidden in his pocket? Whatever it is, it’s not for you to know. But that’s not even the worst part.

Mike’s behaviour? It’s worsening, spinning out of control by the minute. The whispers he mutters under his breath, the way his eyes seem to stare right through you—it’s like he’s not even there. You try to block it out, but the sound of his voice in the oppressive silence of the jungle crawls under your skin. The hum of his instability is electric, a live wire that thrums in your bones, and you feel like you’re walking a tightrope over a pit of snakes, each step bringing you closer to the fall.

The jungle around you feels suffocating. The trees loom like giant sentinels, their branches curling like fingers, waiting to grab you. The last rays of sunlight vanish, devoured by the thick canopy. The shadows shift—too fast, too unnatural—like they’re alive, moving with purpose. Something is watching. You feel it in the back of your neck, a cold shiver running down your spine, and your grip tightens on the walking stick, the makeshift weapon you’ve kept at your side.

You can’t trust Rosendo. The truth of it sinks into your gut, deeper than a stone dropped into a well. But leaving him behind—leaving them both behind—means the island will swallow you whole. Every direction feels wrong, every decision leads to dead ends, and yet, staying with them feels like a gamble that might cost you everything.

You keep your eyes trained on the ground. Your hand hovers over the walking stick, ready to use it at the first sign of trouble. You know what you need to do, but every step forward takes you deeper into a truth you’re afraid to face.

Mike’s Perspective
The whispers have been growing louder ever since the shipwreck, but now they’re almost deafening, like a thousand voices battling for dominance inside your skull. They slither into your thoughts, twisting and knotting themselves around your mind, making it harder to separate what’s real from what’s not. At first, you could ignore them, push them away, but now they’re all you hear. They tell you things, lead you down paths that never seem to go anywhere, pulling at you from every angle, wrapping around your soul like vines you can’t cut through.

You clutch the toolbox in your hands, its weight grounding you in this reality—or at least, what’s left of it. Even if it feels like your mind is fraying at the edges, the toolbox is something solid, something you can still hold on to. The jungle hums with life, but it’s not the familiar sounds of birds or insects you expect. No, it’s something darker. The shadows move, undulating and twisting in ways that shouldn’t be possible. They pulse, like they have a life of their own. They watch you. You don’t know if they’re real, or if they’re just another symptom of the madness creeping up on you. But you know this: they’re not right.

Bryan doesn’t trust you, and you can see it in his eyes—the suspicion, the wariness. Rosendo doesn’t trust you either, but he’s better at hiding it, like a predator biding its time. He’s been keeping something from you, something you can’t put your finger on. Did he find something? Maybe. But it doesn’t matter. The whispers are louder than anything else now. They’re all you hear, all you feel. They tell you to follow the shadows, to go where no one else will. They promise you a way off this island, a way out of this nightmare.

But the whispers… they might not be real. Maybe it’s the jungle driving you mad. Or maybe it’s something else. Something that’s been here far longer than any of you. You don’t trust the others anymore, but you’re not sure you even need them anymore. You wonder if the island might be the only thing you can count on now.

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The three of you halt in a small clearing as sunlight fades into darkness. The jungle breathes around you, its whispers melding with distant growls. A cold weight presses in. Rosendo grips the map, eyes darting between Bryan’s tense form and Mike’s distracted stare.

Bryan shifts, hand on his walking stick, alert for danger. Mike mutters urgently, clutching the toolbox tighter.

You stand at the edge of uncertainty, unaware of what lurks in the dark. The jungle’s patience wanes along with the light.

Rosendo, Bryan & Mike’s Options

1. Follow Rosendo’s lead/Lead the others: Ross’ confidence and secrecy may be enough to guide you through the jungle, but can you trust his motives? He may lead you to salvation; or to something far worse.
2. Seek shelter together: The group might be fractured, but safety in numbers is your best bet. Mike’s instability is growing, and the jungle won’t wait. But staying together means continuing to face his unpredictability.
3. Split up and take separate paths: Your desperation to escape each other has become too strong to ignore. But leaving the group might leave you vulnerable to the island’s darker forces.

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Part 5: Into Solitude

(Ian & Graham)

Ian’s Perspective
The jungle presses in around you like a living thing, suffocating with thick humidity. The weight on your mind is buried beneath the exhaustion in your bones. As the sun dips below the canopy, its last rays splintering through the trees, dusk offers no relief—only the crushing weight of everything that’s gone wrong since the shipwreck, and the dangers lurking in every shadow.

Graham’s gone. Maybe he’s still on the beach, staring out at the horizon, but you’ve left him behind. You couldn’t stay—not after his endless optimism, his refusal to face the truth. His talk of answers felt like a chain around your neck. You don’t need answers. You need shelter. You need to be alone.

You press on, each step a struggle, each breath more labored. The jungle’s vibrant sounds fade to a low hum, replaced by a stifling silence that gnaws at your resolve. Your mind swims in fragments of fear and anxiety, and your body—heavy, worn—begs you to stop. But there’s no turning back now. You stumble into a clearing, and there it is: a crude structure of twisted branches, its shape distorted, as if the jungle itself had grown it with intent.

The branches coil unnaturally, weaving together like gnarled fingers, forming an arched doorway too wide, too twisted. Moss drips from every surface, slick and blackened, giving it the look of something that’s festered here for far too long. The shadows stretch from it, long and hungry, like they’re pulling at you, daring you to step closer. The air feels colder now, and the structure seems to hum with a dark, pulsing energy that makes your skin crawl.

You can’t shake the feeling that you’re being watched, that the very ground beneath you is alive, as if it’s waiting for you to make a mistake. The trees close in, their trunks twisted like they’re leaning in to listen. The whispers you’ve been hearing—are they coming from the structure? Or is it just the jungle, its voice so deep it feels like it’s inside your head? It feels as though the jungle is breathing with you, suffocating with you, urging you to turn back before it’s too late.

And yet, something pulls you toward it. You don’t trust it. Every instinct tells you to run, to leave the structure behind and disappear into the jungle. But there’s something almost… comforting about it. As wrong as it feels, you can’t quite stop yourself from moving closer. The decision is no longer yours. Whatever comes next, it can’t be worse than what you’ve already lived through.

Ian’s Options

1. Investigate the structure: You feel drawn to it, as if it holds answers. Maybe the island’s secret is in that grotesque thing. Maybe it’s what you need to get out of here—but then again, it could be a trap. Still, your curiosity gnaws at you.
2. Retreat back to the shore: You turn away from the structure, admitting to yourself that leaving Graham behind was a mistake. But that means navigating the dark jungle alone again, and there’s something in the air, something wrong, that follows you.
3. Stay in the clearing to observe: You hesitate, considering the safety of staying put. Maybe if you wait, someone else will come, someone you can trust—or maybe the darkness will swallow you whole. Either way, you can’t move forward without some answer.

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Graham’s Perspective
You stay on the beach, every fiber of your being screaming to run, to escape the stillness that hangs heavy around you. You told Ian it was a bad idea to split up, but he never listens. He’s been stubborn from the start. Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe it’s time to stop relying on him, stop waiting for someone to pull you out of the dark.

The ocean is the only thing constant here. The waves crash endlessly, their coldness seeping into your bones, a bitter reminder of the isolation. As the sun’s last rays flicker out, the blackness of night swallows you whole. For a moment, you just stand there, letting it consume you. The weight of it presses on your chest, half relief, half dread.

You start moving, kicking at the debris scattered across the beach, gathering bits of wood, rope, and a broken barrel in a desperate search for something to do. Something to fill the empty space inside you. Your hands shake as you sift through the fragments, numb to the sensation, until something catches your eye.

A small wooden box, half-buried in the sand. Without thinking, you open it. The compass spins wildly in your hand, as if searching for a place to rest, a direction far beyond you. The journal inside is damp, the pages curling and faded, filled with garbled scribbles. But it’s the silver key that makes your gut tighten, a cold knot forming in your stomach.

For a moment, everything shifts. The shipwreck, impossibly whole, appears on the horizon—too close. Then it’s gone, flickering like a mirage. The world warps, blurs, and then it’s just you again, standing on the beach, the key cold in your palm.

A strange sound pulls you back to reality. Shapes move along the rocky shore, climbing over the rocks slowly, cautiously. Whether it’s the exhaustion, the island’s madness, or something else, you don’t know. But you feel it in your bones—something is coming. You can’t wait any longer.

The shadows are closing in, and you have to choose. Now.

Graham’s Options

1. Confront the figures with questions: You can’t afford to wait any longer. You need answers. Approach them with your most guarded, cunning attitude, trying to assess their intentions. But you risk making a false move and revealing too much about your own fractured state.
2. Find a place to hide: You can’t afford to take risks. You’ll wait for them to get closer and make a judgment on whether they’re a threat. But hiding means staying in the shadows, isolated and uncertain.
3. Run away: You’re done. Done with this island, done with trusting people. You can’t wait around for someone else to betray you or lead you into danger. You take off, around the island’s shoreline, away from everything and everyone. The night feels like a prison, but maybe running will at least let you escape some part of it.

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Part 6: The Pull of Madness

(Paul & Tyfanna)

Paul’s Perspective
The whispers scrape against your soul, jagged and relentless, burrowing deeper into your bones, tightening your chest. What began as faint echoes now grow into a steady hum, filling every corner of your mind. The island pulses, alive and in control, its presence suffocating.

The sharp rocks dig into your feet, their pain oddly grounding—a reminder that you’re still here, still tethered to this place, to the whispers, and to Tyfanna. She moves like an automaton, vacant and distant. You want to ask her if she feels it too, but the words stick in your throat. The whispers insist on your silence.

Ahead, the shipwreck looms, its familiar shape now distorted by the island’s grip. You feel the pull, a deep, aching need to move forward, your body no longer your own, but a puppet dancing to an unseen master.

Tyfanna offers strange comfort, but she is changed—pale, unresponsive, lost, much like you. You catch a glimpse of her holding the compass tightly, but you can’t ask her about it. The whispers crescendo, and the ground beneath you seems to tremble, unstable.

You stop, but Tyfanna keeps walking, unthinking. You follow her, drawn forward. Once at the wreck, the air thickens, the whispers turning into a rhythmic chant. You call her name, but no sound escapes. She stares ahead, eyes locked on something you can’t see. The urge to follow the whispers is overwhelming, even as your will fades.

Tyfanna’s Perspective
The compass points steadily ahead, though you can’t remember why you still hold it. Every part of you screams to throw it away, but the pull is irresistible. The needle guides you, and that’s enough. The whispers grow louder, clearer, urging you forward. There’s no room for doubt anymore—they promise answers, power, no matter the cost.

You glance at Paul, his heavy steps echoing beside you. His silence is both a relief and a terror, a reminder of your spiralling descent. You catch glimpses of his fearful eyes, but the whispers drown out everything else. They don’t just speak to you—they speak through you.

You move with purpose now. Your body obeys, though your mind—your mind is slipping. You feel yourself being pulled through the air, each step a weight you can’t remember bearing. It’s wrong, but it’s the only thing that feels real.

The shipwreck is gone, but the space it occupied remains, thick with something nameless. You feel the land’s weight, the pulse of the island’s heart—it’s alive.

And then, there’s Graham, standing at the water’s edge, his back turned to you. The whispers confirm his identity, the compass locked on him. You don’t question it. You can’t. You’re too far gone.

The whispers swell to a deafening crescendo. Every step feels heavier. You should be afraid, but all you feel is the island’s pull, its hunger.

“Closer.”

Paul & Tyfanna’s Options

1. Approach Graham. Pretend everything is fine: Act like nothing’s wrong. Maybe it’s him who’s lost, not you. You can still pretend everything’s normal; maybe then you’ll find out what’s really going on.
2. Attack Graham: The whispers are clear right? Take action. The time has come. Move quickly before the opportunity slips away. Graham is the target, and it’s time to follow the island’s command. You think.
3. Tell Graham about the voices in your head: You can’t carry this burden alone. Maybe he’s hearing the same whispers. Maybe he’ll understand what you’re going through. Maybe it’s worth a shot; maybe he can help.
4. Hide in the rocks and wait: The whispers aren’t clear yet. You’re not ready to act. It’s too soon. Wait in the shadows, stay hidden, and listen. The island will tell you when to move.

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Part 7: Lost in the Maze

(Chris, Jill & Mayoli)

Chris & Jill’s Perspective
The labyrinth closes in on you, its walls black as ink, gleaming like liquid stone. Every step feels like a descent into the void. The deeper you go, the heavier the air becomes, each breath more suffocating than the last. The walls press in, their silent weight draining you. The stillness is absolute, broken only by the faint scrape of your feet against the jagged floor.

Then, the whispers start.

At first, they’re barely audible, a distant hum. But they quickly intensify, curling around your thoughts like smoke. They aren’t words yet, just sensations—vibrations that promise power, clarity, an escape. A flicker of hope sparks inside you, but it’s quickly overtaken by a growing unease. The whispers… they want something from you.

Suddenly, the silence becomes deafening. You glance around, and Mayoli is gone. One moment, she was there, and now she’s vanished without a trace. Panic rises, but the whispers drown it out, louder now, filling the air with their urgent commands. You need to move forward. You can’t stop.

You reach a fork. One path glows with a soft, inviting light, its warmth almost tender. The other is swallowed by darkness, an oppressive blackness that presses in on you, thick with the weight of unseen eyes. The light beckons, comforting and close, but the darkness teases hidden truths. Your heart pounds, the decision crushing you.

The whispers surge, their message clear: Follow the light. But the darkness… it promises so much more, doesn’t it?

Chris & Jill’s Options

1. Follow the light at the end of the tunnel: The soft glow at the end of the corridor beckons like a warm hand reaching out in the cold dark. The whispering voices grow louder, more urgent, urging you forward. It feels like safety, like the answer to everything that’s been pulling at your mind since you entered the labyrinth.
2. Turn away from the light, heading deeper into the darkness: The darkness before you is a suffocating void. No light penetrates, and the air is thick with an oppressive silence that presses in from all sides. But the pull of the dark is undeniable.

Mayoli’s Perspective
You spin, heart hammering, as the labyrinth shifts before your eyes. The walls, once cold and inert, ripple like something breathing, something watching. The air thickens, dense with a presence you can’t name. You call out—“Chris? Jill?”—but the words are swallowed whole, vanishing into the void. They’re gone.

Panic clenches around your ribs. You backpedal, searching for familiar ground, but the floor feels wrong beneath your feet—softer, unsteady, like it might give way. The walls inhale, exhale, pressing closer with each breath you take. It isn’t a maze. It’s a thing, a living thing, coiling around you, savoring your fear.

You lunge forward, but the corridors warp, twisting like muscle, tightening like a fist. The silence is suffocating. Your footsteps sound wrong—distant, like echoes from another version of you, lost somewhere deeper. You reach out, fingers skimming the obsidian walls, expecting smooth stone. Instead, they pulse beneath your touch, warm and slick, like living flesh.

A shudder wracks through you. Move. Now. But the air is thick as tar, clogging your lungs, slowing your limbs. The paths blur together, shifting and looping back, mocking your attempts to escape. Every step takes you nowhere. Time stretches thin, slipping through your grasp. The walls press closer, the space narrowing, your breath coming too fast.

Then—stillness. A moment where everything pauses, the labyrinth holding its breath. The silence deepens, no longer empty but expectant. You’re not alone. Something is here, just beyond the dark. And it’s waiting.

Mayoli’s Options

1. Run. The labyrinth stretches on endlessly, but you can’t stay here: The walls are closing in. You push forward, hoping to outrun whatever this place is. But with each step, you wonder if you’re simply going deeper into its heart. Will running lead you out, or is it just feeding the maze’s hunger?
2. Climb. Perhaps if you climb, you’ll find some way out: The surface is smooth; almost too smooth, as if it were designed to thwart you. You trust your strength, your instincts, and try to find any foothold. Is there a way above this nightmare?
3. Close your eyes: You remember the stories, the old legends of mazes that weren’t real, that twisted the mind into submission. Maybe this is one of them. You squeeze your eyes shut, trusting that if you can stop seeing the walls, they’ll lose their power over you.

---

Part 8: And Down We Go

(Peter & Chelsea)

Peter’s Perspective
The staircase spirals down into an abyss thick with shadow. The stone beneath your feet is worn smooth, slick with time, as if countless others have walked this same path—and never returned. The cold seeps into your soles, into your bones, urging you forward. Your mind screams to stop. Your body disobeys. The walls pulse, the vibration sinking into your chest like an ancient heartbeat, steady and insistent.

The blue light flickers, warping across the stone, twisting like something alive. Shadows stretch unnaturally, mocking your hesitation. A shiver runs up your spine—not fear, something darker. Curiosity. Compulsion. The staircase doesn’t just lead downward. It wants you to descend.

Chelsea’s footsteps sound behind you, muted, distant—too distant. You glance back. The space between you has stretched impossibly far. She should be right there. But she isn’t.

The silence presses in, thick as a held breath. A cold certainty grips you: She’s falling behind. Panic flickers, weak and fleeting, barely enough to slow your pace. You should stop, turn back, call her name. But you don’t. You can’t. The pull is too strong.

Another step. Then another. Your thoughts blur. The air grows colder, swallowing the last hints of light. A low hum rises from below, vibrating through the stone like the voice of something buried deep, waiting.

The stairwell spirals endlessly, the darkness tightening its grip, the promise of revelation glimmering just beyond reach. You hesitate—just for a moment, just long enough to wonder if Chelsea is lost. But the call from below is relentless, drowning out reason.

And so, you descend.

Peter’s Options

1. Continue Down, Leaving Chelsea Behind: You feel it now—a weight, an urgency. You’ve heard the whispers before, but now they’re more than just murmurs; they’re demands, pulling you deeper into the labyrinth. The urge to reach the bottom of the staircase has become an obsession, overpowering every rational thought in your mind.
2. Check on Chelsea, Risking Your Momentum: The air around you is thick with dread, and the hum from below has grown deafening. It feels like your very bones are vibrating in response, but a small part of you wonders if Chelsea’s okay. She was right behind you a moment ago, but now her footsteps are fading, swallowed by the abyss.

Chelsea’s Perspective
The walls glow faintly, veins of shifting blue slithering through the stone. They twist and writhe, shifting just beyond the edge of your vision, their motion elusive, almost teasing. Symbols flicker like firelight, their endless cascade hypnotic. Your steps falter as you stare, drawn in by their rhythm. They don’t make sense—but that only deepens their pull. These aren’t just markings. They pulse with something alive, something reaching into you, bending your thoughts toward a darkness you can’t name.

You lean closer. The air thickens, clinging to your skin, heavy as wet cloth. The hum from below wavers—then vanishes, leaving behind a silence so deep it feels like the world is waiting. Your fingers lift without thought, drawn to the glow. The moment you touch it, something writhes beneath your fingernail. Sharp. Burrowing.

Then, the pain.

Not physical, but deeper—threading through your hand, creeping up your arm, unraveling into your skull. Each second stretches unbearably, a slow, crawling eternity burrowing into the marrow of your being. Then, as suddenly as it began—it stops.

The world shifts.

The hum is gone. In its place, silence. But not an absence of sound—this quiet has weight, pressing against your ribs, coiling around your mind like unseen hands.

Then the voice comes.

It’s soft. Too soft. A whisper against your ear, though no one is there. Yet it’s real. It sinks into your thoughts like ink seeping into paper, thick and inescapable. You know this voice, it says. And you do. You feel it. It knows you.

It’s yours.

It always has been.

Ice trickles through your veins as understanding creeps in. This isn’t just a whisper. This isn’t a trick of the mind. This is the island. And it has been waiting. It has always been waiting.

Peter’s footsteps echo down the staircase—distant, too distant. He’s gone. The silence closes in, forcing you to listen. Forcing you to obey.

The voice speaks again, firmer this time: Stay. You cannot leave. You must wait.

The hum stirs beneath you, deep as a storm on the horizon, thrumming in your bones. The words take root inside you. You do not question them anymore.

Do you surrender, letting the ground claim you? Do you flee, chasing Peter into the dark, your heartbeat hammering in your throat? Or do you turn back, calling for help—knowing no help will come?

Whatever you choose, the island is already inside you.

And time is running out.

Chelsea’s Options

1. Turn Back, Desperate to Escape the Staircase: Something is wrong—so wrong—about everything around you. The symbols on the walls seem to mock you, twisting and writhing with a purpose you can’t understand. The voice continues to whisper, digging deeper into your thoughts, but now it feels like it’s suffocating you.
2. Surrender to the Voice, Obeying Its Call: The voice whispers like honey, promising knowledge, power, escape; but only if you obey. You feel your body tense as your hand brushes against the glowing symbols, an undeniable connection surging through you. The pain gnaws at your insides, but the voice is clear, comforting. It wants you to stay close to Peter.

---

Part 9: Sinking into Silence

(Cowin, Jordanna, Lauren & Andrew)

Cowin, Jordanna & Lauren’s Perspective
The ship groans beneath you, a dying beast, its bones snapping like the final gasps of some ancient leviathan caught between life and oblivion. The air is thick—brine, decay, despair—clinging to your skin, sinking into your marrow. Water laps at your legs, rising, relentless, numbing you as it climbs. The floor shifts beneath your feet, wood splintering, every creak a plea for release. The weight of the ocean presses in from all sides, suffocating, inevitable.

Sara M lies in the corner—pale. Still. A ghost in the chaos. The color has drained from her face, her lips tinged blue, her skin translucent as if she’s already slipping away. She should have woken up. But she hasn’t. And now—time is unraveling.

Cowin grips her shoulders, shaking her, his hands trembling. “Sara—Sara, wake up!” His voice cracks, raw with panic. He tightens his grip, as if he can force life back into her, but her stillness gnaws at him. Jordanna kneels beside them, fingers trembling as they press against Sara M’s throat. Searching. Hoping. Denying.

“Please,” Jordanna whispers, barely audible over the ship’s death throes. “Please.” Her breath shudders, tears brimming.

Lauren splashes through the rising water, breath ragged, hands slipping against wet wood as she searches—for anything, anything that could save them. A tool. A rope. A miracle. Her eyes dart between Sara M’s unmoving form and the dark sea beyond. Is there still time? Can she still be saved?

And then—

The first whisper.

Faint. Barely a breath.

“She’s already gone.”

Cold certainty drips from the words, coiling around your ribs. The presence of the voice is like a hand pressing against your chest.

“Save yourself.”

The whisper pulses through the air, winding into your mind, pulling at your thoughts, promising relief. The voices grow.

“You’re wasting time.”
“Let her go.”

Urgent. Unyielding. Each word sharp, a splinter in your skull, dragging you into confusion.

Cowin’s breath stutters. He hesitates. Jordanna’s hands falter. No pulse. No sign. Lauren’s frantic search slows, her thoughts muddled by the whispers, her hands stilling against the wreckage.

The water climbs—Sara M’s chest, then her neck. She doesn’t stir.

The voices return, louder now.

“Break through the hull. Run while you can.”
“You’ll never make it. You’re already dead.”

The ship lurches, tilting further. A final death rattle. The beams tremble, groaning under the weight of water, a slow collapse into the abyss.

The ocean reaches your chin. Cold. Rising. Stealing your breath. Every inhale feels sharp, like drowning before you’ve even sunk.

The voices scream now.

The decision must be made.

Now.

Cowin, Jordanna & Lauren’s Options

1. Keep trying to revive Sara M: Maybe there’s still a chance, maybe you can pull her back from the edge, but time is running out, and with every second, you risk losing everything.
2. Break through the hull and swim: The ship could collapse at any moment, pulling you under. But maybe there’s a chance to escape, if you’re fast enough—if you can outrun the sinking ship and the rising water.
3. Give in: The whispers are seductive, like a lullaby, promising peace. You could sink with Sara, let the sea take you both into its cold embrace, and end the torment of indecision.

Andrew’s Perspective
The voices slither into your mind, coiling, constricting.

“Leave them.”
“You can’t save them.”

Each word cuts, slicing through your thoughts, contradicting your instincts, muddying your resolve. Your hands tremble against the damp deck, slick with seawater, sweat, and something colder. The storm has passed, but the air is thick—salt, silence, suffocation.

You force yourself up. Every muscle protests. The ship groans beneath you, its wooden bones brittle and broken. Your feet falter, slipping on the wet wood, heart hammering louder than the sloshing water below.

The island is out there. Waiting.

You climb, the weight of the voices dragging at you.

“Stop.”
“Turn back.”

The rising tide churns below, gnashing, ravenous, the sea itself a beast, waiting to swallow you whole. Your hands burn, blistering as you climb faster, pulling yourself up with everything you have left. The ship screams. Wood splinters.

You breach the deck—gasping, shaking.

Stillness.

The wind bites, the air sharp with cold. Too cold. The storm has passed, but the sea is wrong—still, too still, too smooth, shimmering unnaturally beneath the dark silhouette of the island ahead.

Then—

You see it.

A ripple.

Slow. Deliberate.

A shadow beneath the surface—massive, patient. Circling. Watching.

Your stomach knots. It’s too large. Too knowing. Not a fish. Not a wave. Not a trick of the light.

It’s waiting.

Your skin crawls. You hold your breath as the voices return—louder, hungrier.

“Swim, Andrew.”
“You’re strong.”
“The island’s right there. You can make it.”

A promise. A temptation. A lie?

But another voice slashes through—cold, certain.

“You’ll never make it. Find something to float.”

And then the last one, harsh, biting—final.

“Go back. You’ll never outrun what’s in the water.”

The water ripples again. The shadow moves closer, patient, inevitable.

A choice hangs over you. Pressing. Crushing. Unforgiving.

Decide.

Andrew’s Options

1. Leap into the water: Trust your strength to outpace the shadow that stalks you back to the island, even as the water churns beneath you, taunting you with its promise of danger.
2. Make a raft from wooden debris: You need something to float on, to give yourself a fighting chance against the island’s pull. But will there be anything left to hold onto?
3. Climb back down: Return to the others, risking the rising water and their desperation, even as the ship tilts further and the air grows colder, darker.

---

Part 10: Visions

(Sara M only)

The void closes in, heavier than before, not just emptiness but a presence—something alive. The unseen hand of the island wraps around you, not holding but claiming. Its slow, suffocating pulse syncs with your own, an invasion deeper than thought. There are no edges. No escape. Only the dark. You drift, untethered, unmade, a marionette with severed strings—conscious but lost. And the island… it’s calling. Not a whisper. A force. A hum inside your flesh, vibrating in your bones, tugging at your soul. You are not yourself anymore.

Then, the visions strike.

The first erupts from the void—you stand at the edge of a vast waterfall, the roar deafening, merciless. The mist coils around you, and something moves within it. A shadow. A figure. Pressing close, sharp with cold fear. The island pushes at your back. Closer. Forward. Into the unknown.

Before you can resist, the second vision splits through you. Fingers trace glowing lines on a living stone wall, symbols writhing like fire, breathing, watching. The whispers coil around your thoughts—”Know me.”

Then—rage. A beast erupts from the dark, its snarl rattling your ribs. Fangs, claws, hunger. You fight—you must fight—but the more you resist, the stronger it becomes. It will never stop. It will never die. This war has no end.

Then you are running. Through the jungle. Branches tear at you, vines coil, unseen hands claw. Ahead, a red tree looms—dripping blood, alive with something deeper than hunger. The island guides you. Directs you. Relentless.

Then—lightning. A void splits open before you, yawning wide, its darkness endless. Welcoming. A storm churns above, crackling, waiting. The darkness promises everything. To surrender. To let go. Just one step. One step, and it will all be over. Your breath vanishes. Your limbs lock. Your mind fractures between survival and something else. The voices rise, frantic, screaming.

“Choose. Choose. Choose. CHOOSE.”

Sara M’s Options

1. Push through the Void: You summon all your willpower to break through the suffocating darkness. Each step feels like a battle against the island’s grip, with the whispers mocking you. Can your determination be enough to survive, or will the void break you?
2. Search for Clues: You believe there’s a pattern in the chaos, a hidden truth beneath the void. If you can decode the symbols and visions, maybe you can escape. But every moment spent unraveling feels like time slipping away as the darkness closes in.
3. Fight the Darkness: Defiance fuels you as you strike at the shadows, determined to resist the island’s power. The darkness shifts around you, growing with every attack. You fight to survive, but can your rage be the key, or will it consume you first?
4. Connect with the Faces from the Visions: The faces from your visions feel close, like they hold the key to your escape. You try to reach them, to connect and gain their aid. But the island mocks you, saying you’re alone. Can you make the connection in time, or will you be abandoned?
5. Outwit the Void: The island feels like a puzzle; if you can outthink it, maybe you’ll find a way out. You try to bend its rules, using logic to break free. But the island fights back, and the more you push, the tighter its grip becomes.
6. Understand the Whispers: The whispers aren’t just noise; they’re a coded message. If you can decode them, you might understand the island’s true nature. But the more you understand, the more dangerous it becomes. Can the truth set you free, or will it destroy you?

---

As night settles and the whispers rise, one truth becomes undeniable: the island is not just a place; it is a living thing, and it will not let them go without a fight. The only question now is not IF they can survive; but whether they can retain their sanity long enough to do so.