Previously on SURVIVE: The Island…
As night falls over the island, remaining survivors face critical choices. Jordan and Andrea are drawn to a glowing waterfall, unsure if it’s salvation or a trap. Boon struggles with Mayo, who is succumbing to an unnatural trance, while she battles the whispers in her mind.
Tyfanna and Paul attempt to capture Graham for the lighthouse, but he doesn’t trust them, relying on his instincts. Ian finds a strange structure, in the jungle. Rosendo, armed with a map, journeys toward an electrical source, followed secretly by Bryan, who is confronted by growling in the dark.
Mike, losing himself to whispers, heads toward a target, planning to burn it down. Mayoli escapes a labyrinth and stares down a cliff toward uncertainty. In a cavern, Chris is offered power from a mysterious voice, surrendering to the island’s creator, while Jill finds refuge in a hidden cave.
Michelle discovers the Bloodwood Tree and, sees visions of a paradise destroyed. Jim and Travis faced a monstrous creature, with Travis transforming rapidly.
Deep beneath the island, Peter reaches a churning engine and is called to shut it down, but Chelsea, battling her own voice, is leading them both toward danger. Out at sea, Andrew is circled by a shark, while Cowin and Jordanna must decide whether to help him or save themselves, leaving Lauren, who clings to Sara M‘s body, dragged beneath the waves.
Choices are made, and as the island tightens its grip, resistance may be just beginning.
Some have already given in. Some will wish they had.
And some will never be given the choice again.
Jump to:
Jordanna
Andrew & Cowin
Jordan & Andrea
Boon & Mayo
Chris
Jill
Tyfanna & Paul
Graham
Jim & Travis
Mayoli
Rosendo & Bryan
Mike & Ian
Michelle
Peter & Chelsea
Lauren
Part 1: Applause in the Dark
(Jordanna)
Swim. That’s all you have to do.
Your arms carve through the water, steady, rhythmic. The ocean rocks beneath you, lifting you with each slow, gentle wave. The shore is ahead, and the island wants you back.
“Yes. That’s it. Keep going. You are so close.”
The whispers are warm, pleased, curling around your thoughts like hands guiding you forward.
“You are strong. You are smart. You made the right choice.”
Your chest swells, breath coming deep and even. They’re right. You did the right thing. The others—they weren’t meant to make it. Lauren, Sara M… they weren’t like you. You knew when to let go, when to stop clinging, when to save yourself.
“You belong here.”
The voices rise, swelling into something more than whispers—applause. It’s a rush of sound, a rising tide of cheers that fills your head, deafening in its intensity. It’s a celebration. The ocean loves you, the island loves you, you are winning. Your body is exhausted, but your mind is soaring. Behind you, the world is noisy. Splashing. Yelling. Someone—Andrew?—shouting into the night. You don’t turn your head.
“Ignore it. You are almost there.”
The applause grows louder.
“You are coming home!”
It feels good. It feels so good. You’ve never felt this before—not this kind of certainty, this kind of rightness. You are doing what you were always meant to do. And then…
Something touches your foot.
Cold.
Not ocean cold. Worse.
Frozen. Like ice. Like death.
Your entire body seizes. A single instant, a moment of hesitation so sharp it cuts through the euphoria like a needle scratch on a perfect song.
The applause cuts off.
Silence. The ocean feels different now. Heavy. Still. The waves no longer feel like they’re carrying you forward. You don’t want to look down. You have to look down. Your breath stutters as you force yourself to tip your chin, to glance beneath the surface.
Nothing.
Just black. The water stretches down, endless, bottomless.
But then…
A flicker of white.
A shimmer of glistening blue.You don’t even have time to scream before you are yanked under the waves.
Part 2: Between Two Deaths
Andrew
The ocean stretches in all directions, endless and uncaring. You grip the wooden beam beneath you with stiff fingers, knuckles white, legs half-submerged in the freezing water. Your arms tremble, weak from clinging, from kicking, from trying to stay afloat. You should be dead. Maybe you already are.
The ship is gone. The screams, the rushing water, the deafening sound of metal twisting apart—all gone. But the shark is still here.
A dark shape just beneath the surface, circling, waiting. You slap the water hard, kicking, yelling, anything to make yourself big, dangerous, something not worth the effort of biting into. The shark pulls back. Not much, just enough to make you wonder if it’s working. But then it moves in again, testing, patient.
You swallow down the terror choking your throat. This is a game. It’s waiting to see if you break.
Another slap against the water, another yell. The shark veers off, smooth and effortless, its dark silhouette drifting away before curving back toward you again.
Closer.
Then away.
Then closer.
It’s like the whispers in your head—never fully there, never fully gone, circling, watching for weakness. You hold your breath as the fin slices through the water, inches from the beam. The whispers are quiet now, distant. You should be glad for that. Instead, the silence makes you feel small.
Then, in the moonlight, movement.
Two heads bob in the water ahead, caught in the same waves that push and pull against you. One is moving away, to the beach, lost to you forever. The other—the other is swimming toward you.
No. Not toward you.
Toward the shark.
Your breath catches. One of them made it. But which one? You left them behind. You didn’t look back. You don’t even know who you lost. You grip the beam harder, and for a moment, a terrible thought slides through your mind. This is your chance.
The shark is moving away from you, distracted. If you go now, you can make it back to shore. Just let go. Just kick, paddle, survive. Your fingers tighten. Your shoulders shake. Isn’t that what you were supposed to do?
“Leave them.” The whispers had told you that. They had prepared you for this.
You blink hard, shaking your head.
No. That wasn’t your voice.
You were never supposed to be like this. The beam shifts beneath you as the waves rock it back and forth, and below you, the shadow glides closer. Then, for the first time, you and the shark lock eyes.
It’s right there. Inches from your legs, close enough that you can see your own reflection in its endless, black gaze. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, so loud it drowns out the waves. You can feel your muscles lock up, every instinct screaming not to move. The shark keeps coming—slow, deliberate. The water ripples. Your chest tightens.
And then—it turns.
One sharp flick of its tail, and the massive shape spins away, disappearing into the dark. Your breath explodes from your lungs.
You did that.
For the first time since this nightmare started, something happened because of you, because of what you did. Not the Creator, not the whispers. You.
You’re still here. You’re still alive.
A thrill rushes through your veins, a strange, unexpected sense of accomplishment. It feels so foreign that you don’t even know how to process it. And then—it hits you.
The shark didn’t leave. It just found something easier to catch.
Your head jerks toward the swimmer, still fighting against the tide. But the shark—your shark—is moving toward them now, the dark fin slicing the surface, cutting its way toward the only other survivor in the water.
The whispers are gone now.
Andrew’s Options
- Paddle back toward the beach: The shark has moved on—for now. This is your chance to escape, to get away from the voices and the island. If you don’t take it, you might not get another.
- Slowly paddle toward the swimmer and the shark: You won’t throw yourself into danger, but you can get closer, maybe yell again, maybe help without putting yourself at risk.
- Jump into the water and swim toward them: The shark backed off before when you made noise. Maybe if you get close enough, it’ll back off again. Maybe you can help. But if you’re wrong, you might be next.
Cowin
You break the surface with a ragged gasp, lungs burning as you drag in deep, heaving breaths. The ocean stretches endlessly around you, waves rolling in slow, moonlit swells. For a moment, the only sound is the water lapping at your ears. No whispers. No screaming metal. No drowning ship. Just the black sky above, speckled with stars that aren’t the right color.
The sight is wrong, unnatural. The moon is blue. The stars glow with the same eerie hue, pulsing like embers. But you don’t care. Because you’re alive.
Jordanna breaks the surface beside you, coughing and gasping. Relief hits you hard enough to make you dizzy. She made it too. For the first time since stepping onto that cursed ship, the whispers in your head feel like liars. They told you no one would escape. That this was your grave. But they were wrong.
You want to believe it. You want to hold onto the relief, but you can’t. Because two people are missing.
Lauren. Sara M.
Your stomach clenches as you turn back toward the spot where the ship went down, but there’s nothing. No bodies, no debris, just the rolling black water. The thought creeps in slow, cold as the waves. They didn’t make it. You should’ve done more. You should’ve—
Jordanna starts swimming.
Not toward you. Toward the beach.
You hesitate. She doesn’t look back, doesn’t hesitate, just moves with steady, even strokes, like she knows the only way to survive is to keep going forward. She’s probably right. But then you see it—a shape in the distance. A long wooden beam. A person clinging to it, barely staying afloat.
Andrew.
Your mind snaps into focus. Three is better than two. You can make it to him, pull yourselves onto the beam, paddle back together. That’s your best shot. You turn toward him and start swimming. Your limbs are exhausted, but your mind is clear for the first time in what feels like forever.
Then Andrew starts thrashing. You slow, confused. Why is he making so much noise? Then you see it. A fin cuts through the water, illuminated by the moonlight.
A shark.
Your blood turns to ice. No. No, no, no.
Your arms lock up, your kicks falter. The water isn’t safe. You just escaped one nightmare—how can you already be in another? For a second, panic takes over. The survival instinct claws at your brain, screaming at you to swim for shore, now, now, NOW. Jordanna is already ahead. You could catch up, leave this behind, leave Andrew behind.
But another part of you—the part that hasn’t been listening for a long time—fights back. Andrew is alone out here. You aren’t. If you can get to him, maybe together you can scare the shark off. Or—
Or you could stop running.
Your heart is a hammer inside your chest. Your mind isn’t clouded anymore. The whispers are gone. The fear is real this time, but so is the choice. The fin disappears for a second beneath the waves, then reappears—closer.
You have no time.
Cowin’s Options
- Swim for your life toward the beach: Forget the others—if you don’t go now, you might never get the chance. He has to believe that surviving is enough.
- Swim toward Andrew and the shark: Maybe together, you can scare it off. Maybe you stand a chance. Or maybe you’re about to make the worst decision of your life.
- Dunk your head underwater and face the shark head-on: If it turned away once, maybe it will again. Maybe you weren’t supposed to run in the first place.
Part 3: A Stone Without Sound
Jordan
You didn’t want to come back here. But as you and Andrea cut through the jungle and the waterfall appeared, something in your chest tightened. A feeling—not quite fear, not quite comfort, but something in between. The last time you stood here, you weren’t sure if the water was calling to you or warning you away. The woman who was always just out of reach isn’t here now. That should be a relief, but it feels like a problem.
Andrea is the one drawn to the water now. You can see it in the way she watches the golden glow of the pool, her fingers twitching slightly, like she’s holding herself back. It reminds you too much of how you felt the first time. And you don’t trust it.
To you, going in the water feels like a mistake—a nightmare in the making. But here’s no way you’re heading back to the beach now that you’ve been called back here, so it’s time to see what this waterfall is all about. You want to figure out what’s really going on.
So you climb.
The rocks are wet, slick with mist from the crashing water, but there are plenty of places to grip. You move quickly, arms pulling, legs steady. You’re better at this alone, you’ve always been better alone, but Andrea follows. She struggles a little, breathing harder than you, taking longer between handholds, but she keeps up. You don’t know how you feel about that.
The higher you climb, the louder the water should be. But it isn’t. The rush of the falls is a constant roar, yes, but the jungle around you is quiet. Too quiet. No crickets. No birds. No distant shuffle of movement. Just the sound of water behind you, and your own breath inside your head.
At the top, you crouch at the edge, hands braced against the rock. The pool below is the only thing giving off light, gold bleeding outward in soft, pulsing waves. The jungle beyond it is pure black, thick with shadows. You scan the treetops, the gaps in the foliage, searching for movement, for a sign of something else. Nothing.
You exhale, shift your weight, and glance back down. Something is moving beneath the water. A ripple. A shimmer. It isn’t the reflection of the falls—it’s deeper than that. The source. You lean forward slightly, trying to focus, but the shape won’t settle. It’s just out of reach, flickering, shifting, like light refracting through glass.
Your stomach tightens. You don’t like this.
You pick up a small stone, turn it over in your palm. A test. A way to break the silence, to prove the world around you still behaves the way it’s supposed to. You roll it between your fingers once, then let it drop.
The stone hits the water.
No sound.
Your breath catches. The ripple is there, the impact is real, but the noise—there is none. No plop, no splash, just absence. Like the pool swallowed it whole. A shiver crawls up your back. You swallow and glance to your side, half-expecting Andrea to say something, to react.
But she isn’t there.
You turn sharply. She’s further back, standing still, looking into the jungle. Her posture is stiff, her arms held close to her sides. Your first instinct is irritation—what is she doing? But then you follow her gaze.
There’s someone there.
A figure, half-hidden among the trees, stepping forward at an unhurried pace. Moving toward you. Toward Andrea. The jungle seems to bend around them, the dark folding over itself, but their shape is clear. Human. A person. A survivor? Maybe. But something about them makes your fingers curl against the rock.
Andrea hasn’t spoken. Neither have you.
The figure moves carefully, slowly, as if unsure of its own steps. Or as if it’s making sure you see it. Your heart kicks faster against your ribs. You don’t know what’s in the water.
And now you don’t know what’s coming out of the trees either.
Andrea
The pool’s glow flickers against the cliffside, casting shifting reflections like liquid gold. You crouch by the water, heart thudding from the jungle trek. It’s a stunning sight—but that’s what makes you uneasy. The glow is too perfect, too still, meant to be seen. Jordan kneels beside you, gazing into the depths with an unreadable expression, and you wonder if he feels the same.
You should get in. That thought has been circling in the back of your mind ever since you arrived, a quiet but insistent nudge. The water looks clean, untouched, and some part of you knows—knows in a way you can’t explain—that it would be safe. But another thought coils tight around your ribs, stopping you. The last time you saw something unnatural, it was the thing on the beach. The thing that took that woman instead of you.
You exhale slowly and sit back on your heels, pushing back mentally against the feeling creeping over your skin when you think about entering the pool.
Jordan doesn’t argue, and you begin to climb. The rocks are slick beneath your fingers, damp from the waterfall’s spray, but there are enough handholds to pull yourself upward. Jordan moves ahead easily, muscles flexing as he hauls himself higher, while you struggle. Your fingers slip once, and you freeze for a moment, breath catching in your throat before you force yourself to keep moving. Your legs burn, your arms ache. Your mind is still trapped on the beach.
When you finally reach the top, Jordan is already crouched at the edge, peering down into the water. His brow is furrowed, his posture tense, and you realize he’s looking at something. You take a step toward him, opening your mouth to ask what he sees—
Then you feel it.
It isn’t a noise, not really. There’s no snap of twigs, no rustle of movement. It’s more like a shift in the air itself, a sense of something entering the space that wasn’t there before. Like the jungle behind you just exhaled.
You turn.
The figure stands at the edge of the trees, motionless but unmistakably there.
Your first instinct is to think it’s another player. It has to be, right? You’re all stranded here together, scattered like pieces on some massive, messed-up game board. But something about the way this person is standing—too still, too patient—sends a ripple of unease through your stomach.
They don’t step forward. They don’t call out. They just stand there, watching.
Your brain tries to process the details, but they refuse to settle. The shape is right. Tall, thin, clothes hanging loose on a lean frame. But the longer you look, the more wrong it feels, like staring at a painting where the brushstrokes never fully dry. The features don’t set. They’re there, but blurred somehow, unfinished. There are eyes, but no recognition. A mouth, but you can’t tell if it breathes.
And yet… it feels like it knows you. Your stomach twists, but you don’t move. You don’t dare move. The figure tilts its head slightly. Not in confusion. Not in threat. In recognition.
Then, it lifts a hand.
The motion is slow, careful. Not reaching. Not beckoning. Just… open. Like someone asking for help. Like someone waiting for you to decide. The voice that comes next is soft. Almost familiar.
“You don’t have to run anymore.”
The words should be reassuring. They should make you feel safe. But something about them makes your pulse pick up instead, your fingers twitching at your sides. There’s no emotion in the voice. No warmth. It’s not an order. It’s not even a request.
It’s just a statement.
Jordan hasn’t noticed. He’s still crouched near the edge, still staring into the glowing pool below, locked onto whatever he sees beneath the surface. You should call out to him, but the words don’t come.
The figure hasn’t moved. It hasn’t taken a single step toward you. It’s waiting.
Jordan & Andrea’s Options
- Step Forward: It looks like it needs help. Maybe it’s another survivor. Maybe it knows something you don’t.
- Stay Completely Still: If it’s waiting for your reaction, maybe doing nothing is safer. Maybe it will leave.
- Turn and Jump: Into the water. Into the unknown. Into whatever is waiting below.
Part 4: The Fire Between
Boon
The fire is the only thing keeping you grounded. You sit in the dirt, feeding dry sticks into the flames, watching them curl and blacken, listening to the faint pops and crackles. The warmth sinks into your skin, comforting in a way nothing else is. The jungle presses in from all sides, dark and too quiet. Even the ocean, distant but ever-present, feels impossibly far away.
Across from you, Mayo is slipping away.
She sits motionless, legs tucked beneath her, hands limp in her lap. Her face is turned slightly toward the fire, but she’s not looking at it. She’s looking through it. Her expression is distant, eyes glassy, mouth slack. The person in front of you is a hollowed-out version, a shell wearing her skin.
You swallow hard.
“Hey.” Your voice is soft, careful, like speaking too loudly might shatter something delicate. “Mayo, you with me?”
No reaction. You shift your weight, rubbing your palms against your knees. Running would feel wrong. So would tying her up. If there’s something truly sinister inside her, restraining her might only wake it up faster. So you do the only thing that feels right. You try to reach her.
“Do you remember the ship?” you ask. “How you yelled at me for stepping on your foot when we were going inside?”
Still nothing.
You lean forward slightly, bracing your elbows on your knees. “Come on, Mayo. You’ve been staring at the fire all night. Blink or something, at least.”
She does blink.
A slow, unnatural movement, like her body is registering it as an afterthought. And for a split second, you think you see something flicker behind her eyes. Recognition. A piece of her, buried deep. But the moment passes.
Her fingers twitch against the dirt. Her mouth parts slightly, as if she’s trying to speak, but no sound comes. Then—she shudders. Not a normal shiver. Not from the cold.
Something worse.
A tremor that rolls through her body all at once, as if an unseen force just tightened its grip on her spine. Your stomach knots.
“Mayo?”
Her breath hitches. And then she jerks upright.
It’s not a natural movement. It’s too fast, too stiff, like something has yanked her up on invisible strings. Her limbs snap into place like a marionette, body rigid and controlled, and for a second, she’s completely still. Then—she flickers.
Her face doesn’t change all at once. It jitters, distorts, shifting between the Mayo you know and something else entirely. Her features stretch and snap back, her limbs elongating and then stuttering shorter again, her mouth widening too far for half a second before closing as if nothing happened.
The firelight catches in her eyes, but they aren’t her eyes anymore.
They glow bright, burning blue.
Her jaw tenses, muscles working as if trying to form words, but no sound comes. And then, her mouth splits into something that isn’t a smile. Her teeth are too sharp, too many.
Your breath catches in your throat. Your brain screams this isn’t real, this isn’t real, but your body doesn’t care. You scramble backward, heart pounding, hands clawing against the dirt—
And then your palm hits the fire.
Pain explodes up your arm. You yelp, jerking away, but it’s too late—the damage is done. Heat surges through your fingers, skin blistering, the raw sting locking every muscle in your body. The pain is so sharp, so immediate, that for a second, everything else vanishes.
Then Mayo takes a step toward you.
Your mind snaps back into place. Your fingers close around a burning log, and you swing. The flame arcs through the air, missing her by inches—and for a single, breathless moment, her body stutters again. The monstrous version of her vanishes in a flickering glitch, like something caught between two images. Mayo stands before you again. Just Mayo. Her chest heaves. Her hands shake.
Then she turns and runs.
Her scream cuts through the jungle, raw and desperate, and this time—this time, it’s hers. The sound echoes long after she’s gone. You collapse onto your knees, gasping, clutching your burned hand against your chest. Your fingers feel ruined, flesh raw, pain lancing up your arm like fire still lives beneath your skin. You are alone now. The fire crackles beside you, licking at the air, indifferent.
You stare at your hand, at the damage, at the choices laid out in front of you.
Boon’s Options
- Stay by the fire: It’s your only source of light, warmth, and protection. But you’re vulnerable, and if Mayo—or something worse—comes back, you’ll be alone.
- Try to find Andrea and Jordan: You don’t know where they are, and the jungle is dangerous. But if you don’t want to be alone, they might be your only chance.
- Go to the ocean and treat your burns: The salt water will hurt like hell, but it might stop infection. The question is—what else is lurking near the shore?
Mayo
Boon is watching you. You don’t know how long he’s been sitting there, cross-legged by the fire, his face flickering between light and shadow. His mouth moves, slow and deliberate, but the words don’t make sense. They are sharp at the edges, warped, slipping between meanings. You need to wake up, Mayo. No. You need to shut up, Mayo. No. That isn’t right. That isn’t what he said, is it?
He shifts forward, and the movement startles you. His arms rise—in surrender? In attack?—and suddenly, his hands are too big, his fingers curling into claws, his body flickering like flame. His face—God, his face—stretches, splitting with jagged teeth that weren’t there before.
“I just want to help,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like Boon anymore. His voice is deep, crackling, the growl of burning wood. “You have to stop this.” No. No, that’s not what he means. He’s threatening you. He’s warning you.
Boon is fire. Fire is Boon. A hungry, devouring thing. He takes another step toward you, and your breath catches in your throat. Why won’t he stop? Why is he coming at you like that? You press your hands against your temples, trying to push him away, but he only gets closer, towering over you, monstrous and burning.
It happens all at once.
A pulse erupts from somewhere deep inside you, a flood of something bright and electric, powerful and endless. The pain vanishes, the fear dissolves, and in its place comes clarity. The world sharpens, and for the first time, you see everything clearly. You are not small. You are not weak.
You are above him.
Boon shrinks, body collapsing inward, his arms snapping up to shield himself. He staggers, cowers, trembles at the sight of you. You could end this. You should.
And then he falls.
The fire swallows him, and the world slows. You watch the flames lick at his skin, curling around his arms, his shoulders, his face. He doesn’t scream. He barely moves. Just crumples into the embers, body turning black, eyes hollow and glassy. Something about it feels right.
Warmth spreads through you, not from the fire, but from within. The world hums with a new, glowing energy, the kind that settles into your bones, makes you feel like you belong.
Then—light.
It hits your face, too bright, too sudden, flooding your vision with warmth and something else—something distant, familiar. It’s not fire. It’s something softer. The heat of it digs beneath your skin, and for a moment, the world tilts. The power slips. The glow fades. The fire retreats. And then, as if waking from a dream, you feel something impossible.
Yourself. It only lasts a second.
“What—”
Then—the screaming starts. Not from outside. Inside. The voices don’t like this. They thrash and screech, rattling inside your skull, tearing at the edges of your mind. Too loud too loud TOO LOUD—
You bolt.
Your feet hit the ground before you even process the movement, the jungle rushing past in streaks of darkness and flickering light. The trees stretch unnaturally tall, their limbs curling toward you, reaching, grasping. But they don’t stop you. They are cheering.
The jungle is alive with movement. Shadows slip between the trunks, some darting ahead, others running beside you. They are welcoming you, singing to you, celebrating your arrival.
“Yes, yes, yes—”
You don’t even know what they’re saying anymore, but you don’t need to. You belong here.
And then—impact.
Your body slams into something solid, sending you crashing backward into the dirt. The world reels, lurches, spins. For a moment, the shadows flicker uncertainly, like a song skipping over a broken note.
There’s someone standing in front of you.
A woman.
She’s thin, covered in dirt, hair tangled, eyes sharp even in the darkness. She looks exhausted but focused, like someone who has been running forever but refuses to fall. You’ve never seen her before. And yet—you have. She looks like you. Not the Mayo from the fire. Not the Mayo the shadows love.
She looks like the Mayo you used to be.
Your breath catches. The jungle behind you holds its breath. The woman’s face softens. She doesn’t speak. She just opens her arms. An invitation.
Mayo’s Options
- Step into the woman’s embrace: She looks like someone who understands. Maybe she can help. Maybe she can pull you back before it’s too late.
- Stay completely still: The jungle is watching. The shadows are waiting. If you hesitate, will they drag you back? Will she?
- Let go: The fire is still inside you, waiting. You can feel the power curling at the edges of your mind, whispering that you don’t have to be afraid. You don’t have to be weak. You don’t have to be human. Just surrender—and become what you were meant to be.
Part 5: A Deal With the Devil
(Chris)
The island wants to see what you’re made of. That’s how you choose to look at it. The shimmering cavern surrounds you, its walls veined with glowing blue crystal, the air thick with expectation. The island is watching. Or something is. And it has given you a choice.
“You will rise above all the others who came before.”
You roll your shoulders, feeling the weight of the moment settle into your bones. This isn’t just survival anymore. This is a test. And if the island—or whatever is speaking to you—wants to see what you’re made of, then fine. Let’s show it.
You could walk away, sure. Pretend you don’t want this. But where would that leave you? Back in the jungle, another nobody scrambling for scraps, waiting to get picked off by the next freaky thing lurking in the shadows? No thanks.
You could try negotiating, demanding terms, but why bother? If you’re meant to be strong, then be strong. Don’t beg for clarity. Take the opportunity. It’s dangerous, yeah. But is it more dangerous than refusing?
No.
You reach out. The crystal is cool beneath your fingers, unnaturally smooth. And then—heat. It bursts through you in an instant, flooding your limbs, searing into your skull, sinking into your marrow. You suck in a sharp breath, but it’s not pain.
It’s power.
Your skin tightens, your muscles coil, strength unfurling in you like a predator stretching after a long sleep. Your heartbeat pounds louder, heavier. Your senses sharpen—the cavern is clearer now, the air crisper, the weight of the world more tangible. You clench your fist and feel the strength in it. Like you could punch through stone, crush whatever gets in your way. You can hear your own breath, but also—more.
The hum of the island beneath your feet. The shifting of the air against the cavern walls. The heartbeat of something bigger than you, something ancient and pleased. God, this is good. This was the right decision. You aren’t just going to survive another day.
You’re going to survive forever.
The thought thrills you. No more fear. No more running. No one will ever tell you what to do again. And then—
A voice tells you what to do.
“Good. I was hoping you’d say yes.”
It slides into your mind, casual, amused. Like it’s been waiting for you to figure this out. Your jaw clenches. You should feel annoyed. But the power still hums beneath your skin, still fills every inch of you, and you can’t quite bring yourself to care.
“So willing. So eager. It’s refreshing, really. The others always fight. Always struggle. But you? You understand. Power is meant to be taken. Used. And together, we will use it well.”
Together. The word lodges in your brain like a rusted nail.
“Now. Where shall we begin?”
The cavern shifts around you, or maybe just inside you. You feel it—a pull. Places calling to you, maps unfolding in your head.
The beach. The waterfall. The bunker. The lighthouse. The tree.
Each one holds something. Each one is waiting for you. The voice hums in satisfaction.
“The choice is yours, of course.”
How generous. How considerate. A choice. Just one of the choices it has given you. A flicker of unease slithers up your spine. The power in your blood still hums, still coils like something alive. But now you feel it isn’t just yours. It’s been shaped around you. Directed.
Given.
You exhale, shaking your head, forcing down the feeling. It doesn’t matter. Because at the end of the day, you made the smart call. You’re alive. You’re powerful. And you’re still in control.
Aren’t you?
Chris’ Options
- Go to the beach: Something important is happening there. You’ll know what to do when you arrive.
- Go to the waterfall: There is something there that must be dealt with. You are strong enough to handle it.
- Go to the facility: There are things inside it that belong to you now. You must claim them.
- Go to the lighthouse: There will be someone there who needs to see what you’ve become.
- Go to the tree: You don’t know why, but something about it calls to you. It will not stand in your way for long.
Part 6: The Eyes of the Island
(Jill)
The cavern breathes with you. You don’t know how long you’ve been here. Minutes? Hours? It doesn’t matter. Time has stopped feeling like something you need to measure. It stretches wide, filling this space, rolling over the still pools and untouched stone like an exhale from the island itself.
For the first time since arriving here—since waking up in this nightmare, since being hunted, since being tested—you feel safe. You sit on the moss-covered stone, legs curled beneath you, fingers running over the smooth walls, tracing the shapes of paintings older than you can comprehend. They tell a story, but you don’t understand it yet. Not fully.
All you know is that this place is untouched.
The air is clean. The silence isn’t oppressive—it’s comforting. There are no whispers, no tricks, no threats. You made the right choice. You know this the way you know the sun will rise, the way you know breath fills your lungs. You walked away from the path of temptation, from the light that wasn’t really light at all. And in return, the island has given you this.
You eat. The fruit is unlike anything you’ve ever tasted—sweeter, richer, more nourishing than it has any right to be. With every bite, warmth spreads through you, sinking into your muscles, your bones. It doesn’t just feed you—it makes you whole.
Your body is exhausted, but your mind is full. So you curl into the moss, let it cradle you like a bed, and let sleep take you.
You dream.
You are a bird, soaring high above the jungle, the wind ruffling your colourful feathers, the world spread wide beneath you. The sky is blue, the sun warm, the ocean stretching forever.
You are a fox, darting through the underbrush, your body sleek and fast. You laugh—actually laugh—as your paws kick up soft earth, your siblings nipping at your heels, playing, free.
You are a monkey, lounging in the high canopy, lazily peeling fruit as your family chatters around you. The world hums with peace, with balance, with the easy rhythm of life. The island was perfect. And then—
Something changes.
A thought cuts through the dream like a blade.
“Was in balance.”
The bird keeps flying—until it slams into an invisible wall. Its wings crumple. It falls.
The fox races home—only to find the trees burning with blue fire, the scent of death in the air. It howls, searching, searching—but there is no one left to answer.
The monkey clings to its tree, its world stripped bare. The branches are gone. The trunk is slick. Below, the ground churns with snapping, snarling dogs, things that were never meant to be here. It holds on as long as it can—but gravity is patient.
You wake.
Not screaming.
Not panicked.
But changed.
The cavern is still silent, still peaceful—but it is not untouched. Not anymore. Because now you know. Something happened here. Something wrong. Who would do this, ruining something so full of life? Why were there no people on this island? Why are you here?
The questions coil inside you, but there are no answers. Not yet. You shift, standing on shaky legs. You know you can’t stay. This place is a gift, but it is not your destination. You walk to the pool and sink down onto the ledge, dipping your legs into the water. It is cool, gentle, welcoming. Your reflection ripples, but you don’t look away.
And then—
Something changes.
A feeling creeps up your legs, curling into your muscles, seeping into your chest, your heart, your mind, your soul.
It doesn’t hurt.
It doesn’t take.
It simply fills.
Like light into an empty space, like water into dry earth. A power that does not demand anything from you, but gives anyway. It feels like knowing. And suddenly, you see it. There isn’t just one way out.
There are three.
Obviously you could go back the way you came. Through the obsidian labyrinth, back into the twisting maze that tried to keep you lost. There’s a jagged opening in the cavern wall, a climbable path leading somewhere new. It will be difficult, but possible. And there, just visible beneath the water, a passage just visible beneath the surface. You should be afraid of it—but you aren’t.
You exhale, letting the knowledge settle inside you. The cavern is waiting. The water laps at your skin, patient and steady.
For the first time, you feel ready.
Jill’ Options
- Go back the way you came: Face the obsidian labyrinth, retracing your steps, confronting the place that almost trapped you.
- Climb up the cavern wall: Push yourself, rise to the challenge, take the difficult route into the unknown.
- Swim through the water: Trust the island, follow the current, embrace the path that feels right even if you don’t understand it yet.
Part 7: The Shadow Walks the Shore
Tyfanna
You try everything. Your voice wavers between pleading and commanding, unsure which one will make Graham stay. You reach for him—not physically, not yet, but with words.
“Graham, just listen.”
He shifts his weight, eyes darting between you and Paul, the way a cornered animal watches for an opening. He doesn’t trust you.
“We’re not trying to hurt you. We’re trying to help.”
You don’t know if that’s true or false. You don’t even know if these words belong to you anymore, or if they’ve been fed into your mouth like raw meat to a starving dog. The whispers coil around your thoughts, tightening, pressing.
“He’s hesitating. Take him now.”
You grit your teeth, forcing the words down, swallowing the command before it leaves your lips. That’s not how this works. He just needs to understand.
“The lighthouse. That’s where we need to go. It’s the only way.”
Graham flinches at the word need. His breathing is too fast, too uneven, his feet shifting on the sand. The whispers snarl.
“You are failing.”
Paul steps forward, trying to reason with him too, but it’s over before he can say a word.
Graham bolts.
One second he’s there, and the next he’s gone, sprinting down the coastline, disappearing into the dark. You reach for him, too late, your fingers curling into nothing but empty air. The compass in your hand twitches violently, like an insect pinned to your palm, and suddenly it burns—really burns. But you barely feel it.
Because inside your skull, something detonates.
Paul
The explosion inside your head is pure rage. Not yours. His. It floods through your veins like acid, the voices no longer whispers but screams, shrieking their fury, their disgust, their punishment.
“You were given everything.”
“You were handed the path. The answer. The only thing we asked was obedience.”
“And you failed.”
The compass blazes in Tyfanna’s grip, but she doesn’t drop it. Her body is rigid, trembling, the fire of something much larger than herself searing through her bones. You fall to your knees, clutching your skull as if you could crack it open and let the rage pour out. But it isn’t inside you. It is you.
Then—silence.
Not a single whisper. Not a single word. Just the sound of the waves pulling back, retreating. And then, something rises from the ocean. At first, it’s just a shape in the water. A ripple, a disturbance. But then it grows, stretches, unfolds from the black surf like something being pulled from the depths.
A figure.
Its body is made of liquid and shadow, its form constantly shifting. The moonlight doesn’t touch it. It should—it should illuminate something that large, that solid. But the light bends away, swallowed before it can land.
The face—if it can be called that—is worse.
It is motion itself. A vortex, a storm of twisting smoke and flickering lightning, something that moves and spins and never stops. It is like looking into a hole that leads to nowhere. And it steps onto the shore. Your lungs seize. You should be running. You should be moving, screaming, praying—but the moment its presence touches the beach, you realize that time itself has slowed.
It raises its head—or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it has no head to raise. And a voice speaks, but not in your mind. This is not a whisper, not a demand, not a promise. This is a law being spoken aloud.
“One of you must go.”
The words settle into the air like weights on your shoulders. Tyfanna is staring at it, unblinking, as if caught in a dream. The compass in her hand is dead now, pointing to nothing. You don’t know if she’s looking at you or if she’s thinking the same thing you are.
“Choose.”
The sea is pulling in.
The air is watching.
And the thing that crawled from the water is waiting.
Tyfanna & Paul’s Options
- Sacrifice yourself: Step forward. Accept the punishment. Maybe the other will live. Maybe you will live.
- Sacrifice the other: Push them forward. Let them be taken. Let them be erased. Maybe you will survive. Maybe.
- Run: Try to escape. Try to flee. But the thing was sent for both of you. And it won’t tolerate failure.
Part 8: The Man Who Ran
(Graham)
Paul and Tyfanna aren’t acting like themselves. They speak with urgency, with conviction that wasn’t there before. Their voices layered, distorted, as if something else is speaking through them. And it’s the lighthouse—always the lighthouse.
“You have to come with us, Graham. We’re supposed to go together.”
“It’s the only way.”
You want to help them. You really do. They look so certain, so desperate for you to understand. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Nothing about this feels like it belongs to them. The way they tilt their heads slightly, the way Paul winces mid-sentence like he’s fighting against something you can’t see—it’s all wrong. And the lighthouse. That’s where they want you to go.
That’s where you will not go.
Because you’ve been tricked before. You remember the void. The moment after the lightning struck, when you were floating, suspended between two choices. The light was beautiful. Warm. Inviting. But you saw it for what it was—a lie.
You chose the darkness instead.
And it showed you the truth. A stone archway, a crimson tree weeping black sap, and that cloaked figure laughing at you. Now, here you are again. Another choice. Another trap. Paul and Tyfanna are still pleading, still insisting, still waiting for you to make the wrong decision. So you make the right one.
You run.
You don’t look back. You don’t slow down. You don’t listen when Tyfanna shouts your name, when Paul stammers something that might have been a warning. You shut them out, push your body forward, let your legs carry you as far from them as possible. The wind roars past your ears. The sand shifts under your feet, making each step unsteady, but you don’t stop.
And then—a sound.
Not their voices anymore. Something else. A crackling, static-filled hum, deep and low, like a distant radio signal struggling to find clarity. It drifts through the air, just beneath the sound of the crashing waves. You tell yourself it’s nothing.
You don’t believe yourself.
Your lungs burn. Your legs ache. But still, you run. Not toward safety. There is no safety. Just away. Eventually, your pace slows. Your breath shudders in your chest, your throat raw from the cold air. The coastline stretches out in both directions—endless, empty.
You’re alone.
You should feel relieved, but you don’t. You press a hand to your chest, feeling the frantic rhythm of your heartbeat. It takes you a moment to notice you’re still gripping something—the small silver key. You turn it over in your palm, smooth, featureless, ordinary.
A key needs a door.
You haven’t seen a single one since waking up on this island. Another mystery. Another question with no answer. You look up, trying to clear your head, but the sky doesn’t help.
Because the sky is wrong.
The stars shimmer, too blue, too sharp. The moon casts its glow over the sea, but its light feels unnatural, too precise. And for the first time, you realize—the stars are moving. Not drifting, not twinkling. Moving. Not the stars themselves.
Something behind them.
You blink hard, shake your head, but the sensation doesn’t leave you. The sky is too deep. Too alive. You need to focus. You need to choose. Ahead, high on a rocky peninsula, a lighthouse stands against the night. And despite everything, despite knowing that the lighthouse was the one place you refused to go—
The light is on.
It isn’t white. It isn’t warm. It is blue. The same impossible, unnatural shade of the stars. Of the void. You shudder and tear your gaze away. To your left, deep in the jungle, a glow filters through the trees. It isn’t blue. It isn’t harsh. It’s warm. Flickering, like firelight.
The idea of rest—of warmth, of safety, of something human—pulls at you. You don’t remember the last time you slept. The exhaustion has been creeping in, crawling beneath your skin, making it harder to think, harder to move. You could just… stop. For a little while. Then, out of the corner of your eye, something else. Far out at sea—barely visible past the waves.
Lights.
They blink in and out, too structured to be natural, too distant to be a trick of the water. A ship? Maybe. Or maybe it’s something worse. The possibilities churn in your mind, each one leading to a different kind of unknown.
The lighthouse, with its eerie blue glow. The jungle light, warm and inviting. Or the distant lights on the sea, unreachable unless you find a way to signal them. Your pulse throbs in your ears. There’s no right answer. Only the next mistake.
And you have to make it now.
Graham’s Options
- Go to the Lighthouse: It is high ground. It is shelter. But something in your gut screams that it is wrong.
- Go to the Warm Jungle Light: It looks safe. It feels like safety. But nothing on this island is safe, is it?
- Try to Signal the Distant Lights on the Ocean: Maybe it’s a ship. Maybe it’s rescue. But what if it’s something worse?
Part 9: Eat or Be Eaten
Jim
The cavern is so dark at first that it doesn’t feel like a place, just an absence. The kind of darkness that presses against your skin, seeps into your lungs, makes you feel like you’re walking straight into a void. You don’t speak. Neither does Travis. It’s too quiet, but not the good kind of quiet—the kind that means something is listening.
Your hands skim along the damp walls as you move forward. The air smells wrong. Not musty, not stale like a cave should smell—but sharp, electric, like the charge before a thunderstorm. There’s something else too, something faintly rotten beneath it. Travis walks ahead of you, his breathing slow and deep. Too deep.
You try to ignore how unsteady he is, the way he grips the wall like he needs it to hold himself together. The bite must be worse than you thought. You should turn around. This was a mistake. You know it. You knew it before you stepped inside. But you also know Travis won’t leave.
You turn a corner, and suddenly—light.
Not daylight, not fire, but a blue glow, pulsing from the walls like veins beneath skin. At first, you think it’s just the stone reflecting something, but then you see it: the fungus. It covers the walls in thick patches, glistening, shifting like it’s alive, like it’s breathing. The glow moves in waves, pulses, almost like a heartbeat. It should be disgusting, alien, but something about it feels wrong in a different way.
And Travis is staring at it.
His eyes are wide, hungry. He steps forward and runs his fingers along the glowing surface. The light clings to him, soaks into his skin. And he exhales. Not in pain, not in fear—in relief.
You shudder.
Then something moves in the distance.
At first, you think it’s the cave itself shifting, but no—it’s bodies. Dozens of them. Black-furred things unfolding from the shadows, rising to their feet, sleek and skeletal, with too-long limbs and glowing blue eyes. They do not snarl. They do not lunge.
They watch.
One steps forward, the biggest of them, its body slick with darkness, its eyes glowing like the fungus on the walls. It does not look at you. It looks at Travis.
And Travis smiles.
Your blood turns to ice. You whisper his name, but he doesn’t react. You whisper again, louder. He doesn’t hear you. The beast stares at him.
And Travis stares back.
Jim’s Options
- Run: Leave Travis behind. He’s already gone. Save yourself before they change their minds.
- Stay: Try to reach him. Try to pull him back. Try to fight against something that is already decided.
Travis
This is the first time in hours that you haven’t felt pain. The cold, sick feeling from the bite—the sensation that’s been clawing at your insides, poisoning your mind—is gone.
You inhale deep, and the air feels right. The glow on the walls—it smells like something you’ve needed all your life but never had. You step forward, barely hearing Jim whispering behind you. His voice is a buzzing insect, distant, irrelevant. Because you are looking at them.
The creatures are so still. Not predators, not monsters—pack.
Family.
The big one, the leader, steps closer. It does not speak with words. It doesn’t need to.
“You were lost. But now you are found.”
The voice is not outside of you. It is inside. You want to tell them they’re wrong, that you have a home, a family, a life—but when you reach for those memories, they aren’t there.
You don’t remember your mother’s face. You don’t remember your father’s voice. You don’t remember if you ever had a wife, a child, anyone.
But when you look at these creatures, you feel something deep in your bones—you are not alone.
“You are one of us now. But you are dying.”
Dying.
The bite.
You glance down at it, and for the first time, you see what it really is. It isn’t a wound. It’s a doorway.
“You must eat. You must join us. Or you will wither away.”
You hesitate.
Jim is still whispering. He wants to leave. He doesn’t understand. You look at the creatures again, and the leader tilts its head.
Patient.
Kind.
“We do not eat man. It is not to our taste.”
“Eat, and we will let him go.”
“Refuse, and we may make an exception.”
You turn to Jim, who is still calling your name, his voice frantic, desperate. He doesn’t hear them. He doesn’t know. You feel the bite pulsing, feel yourself hollowing out. The pain will come back soon. You don’t want to die. But you also don’t want Jim to die either.
And now, you must decide.
Travis’ Options
- Join them: Step forward. Accept the change. Become part of something larger, something eternal.
- Reject them: Try to hold onto who you are. Try to resist the hunger. Try to be human.
Part 10: The Edge of the World
(Mayoli)
You grip the rocky edge of the cliff and stare down at the long, treacherous descent beneath you. The wind howls up from the ocean, cold and sharp, biting into your skin like tiny teeth. The waves crash against the jagged rocks below, their rhythm steady, patient—as if they know they’ll get you eventually. But they won’t.
Because you won’t fall.
You shift your weight, testing the first foothold. The rock is slick in some places, rough in others, but you’ve made up your mind. You aren’t going back. You closed your eyes in that damned labyrinth, shut out its tricks, and freed yourself.
No one is going to trap you again.
Hand over hand, foot by foot, you begin your descent. The first few minutes are pure adrenaline. Every grip is a gamble, every shift in weight a potential disaster. Your fingers ache from gripping the jagged edges, your legs tremble from holding steady. The cliff face is steep, uneven, forcing you to move sideways as much as downward, feeling your way through like a spider on a wall.
You steal a glance upward and feel a strange twist in your gut. The sky is wrong. The blue stars pulse faintly, flickering like candle flames in a slow breeze. But they’re not moving. Not really. It’s something else—something behind them, shifting beneath the fabric of the sky itself.
That’s impossible.
You squeeze your eyes shut. Not the time. You can have an existential crisis later. First, don’t die. You continue downward, one careful movement at a time. A foothold crumbles beneath you.
For one horrible second, your stomach lurches into your throat as your foot slips. You claw at the rock, nails scraping against the stone, your other foot kicking out wildly— Then, somehow, you find purchase. Your body jerks to a stop. You dangle there, breathless, heart hammering against your ribs. The ocean below seems closer now. You let out a slow, shaky breath and press forward.
Finally—finally—you reach the bottom.
You stumble onto the rocky shoreline, legs trembling from exhaustion. When you turn to look back at the cliff, a dizzy wave of pride washes over you. You actually made it. The cliff looms above you, impossibly high, impossibly steep. And you beat it.
You allow yourself one deep breath. Then another.
Then you realize—you are completely alone.
The night presses in around you. The salt air fills your lungs, the scent of the sea strong and unrelenting. You’ve been awake for too long. Your body is screaming for rest, but you don’t remember ever sleeping before coming here. Hell, you don’t even remember who you were before waking up on this island.
The realization should terrify you. It doesn’t. It just makes you angry.
Someone put you here. Someone thought they could play with you, manipulate you. Who? Why? You don’t know. But if there’s one thing you’re sure of, it’s that you’re not going to lie down and take it. You scan your surroundings.
You have choices.
To your right, along the shoreline, beneath the cliff face, a lighthouse stands in the darkness. Its tower reaches toward the sky, but the light at the top is dead. A lighthouse with no light. What good is that?
To your left, a boathouse. The small wooden structure sits at the edge of the shore, too far to make out details, but there’s light inside. Someone—or something—is in there.
Directly in front of you, about fifty feet into the ocean, a rowboat drifts aimlessly on the waves. There’s no sign of anyone inside. But a boat is a boat.
You exhale, rolling the tension from your shoulders.Whoever put you here, whatever game they’re playing, they messed up. Because you aren’t going to break.
And you aren’t going to wait for answers to come to you.
Mayoli’s Options
- Go to the lighthouse: It’s abandoned. No light. But something about it feels like it was meant to guide her here. To what? She doesn’t know.
- Go to the boathouse: The light inside is inviting—or is it a trap? Either way, it’s the only sign of life she’s seen in a long time.
- Swim to the rowboat: The ocean isn’t exactly friendly, but the boat is floating—untouched. Empty. Maybe it can take her somewhere else entirely.
Part 11: The Key to Safety
Rosendo
You don’t owe Bryan anything.
That’s what you tell yourself as you run, lungs burning, heart hammering, the growls behind you stretching into something more like snarls, more like words—but not quite. Your feet tear through thick brush, cutting across gnarled roots and slick mud, but you don’t stop. You can’t.
Bryan was following you. That’s the only reason he’s out here. He wanted the map, wanted to take whatever you were about to find. He’s made his own bed. You’re not going to lie down in it with him.
The buzzing grows louder, electric and alive. It vibrates through the trees, through your bones, through the very air around you. You push forward, through the thick foliage, and nearly stumble as you burst into a small clearing.
A building. Square, cement, jarring in the middle of the jungle. It looks like it’s been here forever, yet somehow untouched. The walls are smooth, the door metal, industrial—reinforced. And it’s humming. The sound is deeper now, almost rhythmic, pulsing like a heartbeat. You don’t stop to analyze it. You run for the door.
Behind you, Bryan screams.
A garbled shout, not of pain—of terror. You hear movement, the snap of branches, a wild, strangled cry. You don’t turn around. Your hands fumble for the key as your breath comes in frantic gasps. You nearly drop it—slick with sweat, fingers shaking—but then it slides into the lock with unnatural ease. Like it belongs there. Like you belong there.
You throw the door open, rush inside, and slam it shut. The metal clanks against the frame. Your hands automatically reach for the lock, twisting it into place. Secure.
Silence.
You brace yourself against the cold cement wall, lungs heaving, fingers pressed to the surface like an anchor. You made it. You finally made it.
But Bryan didn’t.
You squeeze your eyes shut. The guilt creeps in, but you push it down, focus on your surroundings. You need to know where you are. The room is small, sterile. Lit by flickering fluorescent lights. Desks line the walls, covered in scattered papers, old monitors, diagrams pinned to the concrete. Some of them are maps—maps of the island. You step closer, your eyes scanning over the landmarks.
The cliffs. The waterfall. The lighthouse.
And one location, circled in thick ink. Right where you’re standing. The buzzing isn’t coming from the room. It’s coming from below. A staircase sits at the far end, leading downward into absolute darkness. The sound pulses from the depths, as if something down there is waiting.
Then—pounding. Loud. Desperate.
“Rosendo! Open the damn door!”
Your breath catches. You whip around, staring at the metal entrance. The lock holds.
“Please, man! It’s just me!”
You hesitate. It sounds like him. Bryan slams his fists against the metal again, rattling it in its frame. You don’t hear anything else. No growls. No movement. Just Bryan.
“Something’s out here! I don’t know what the hell it is, but it’s not right!”
He gasps for breath between his words, frantic, on the verge of breaking. Your fingers twitch at your sides. You don’t move.
“Please! I swear to God, I’m alone! I just—” He cuts himself off, panting. Waiting.
You swallow hard, staring at the door. Your mind races. You don’t know what was out there. You don’t know what was chasing him. You don’t know if it’s still with him.
You glance back at the desk, at the monitors, the papers—the answers. You could search the room. Find out what this place is, what it was used for. Maybe it’ll give you a clue as to why you’re here.
Or you could go down.
You glance at the stairwell, at the blackness yawning at the bottom. The buzzing calls to you, deeper, more rhythmic now, like a sound designed to lull something into motion. You don’t know what’s waiting beneath you. But you know something is. Bryan pounds on the door again.
“Rosendo, please!”
You exhale through your nose, hands curling into fists.
Rosendo’s Options
- Open the door: Let Bryan in, saving him. But if he’s lying, if something is out there, you may have just sealed your fate.
- Search the room: Ignore Bryan. Focus on the information in front of you. Find the answers you’ve been looking for—if you can ignore what’s happening outside.
- Go down the staircase: The buzzing is calling. The answers are below. But so is something else. Something you might not want to find.
Bryan
You were never part of his plan.
That’s the thought that pounds through your skull as you run, lungs aching, legs burning, tearing through the jungle after Rosendo. He’s ahead of you, just barely visible through the brush, sprinting toward something. You hear the buzzing, the electric hum vibrating through the trees, through your bones, and you know he’s close to whatever he was looking for. And you should be right there with him.
You weren’t following him to steal from him. You just wanted to see what he found. Maybe even help each other out. But Rosendo? He never thought of you as an ally. And now, something else is back there. The growling. Low and wet and alive. You don’t stop to look for it.
You run.
Then—a clearing. Rosendo bursts through first, feet hitting solid ground as he sprints toward a square cement building, out of place in the jungle, humming with electricity. It looks like a bunker, sturdy and reinforced. A safe place. Relief surges through you. You made it. Then—the door swings open, and Rosendo disappears inside.
“Rosendo!” you shout, but he doesn’t hesitate.
The door slams shut. Then—the lock clicks into place. You stop dead in your tracks.
No.
You reach the door and pound your fists against the metal. It doesn’t budge.
“Rosendo! Open the damn door!”
No answer. Your breathing is ragged, chest heaving, hands flat against the surface as if you could just push through. You’re shaking, not from exhaustion but from something hotter, something twisting in your gut. He locked you out. He ran, and he locked the door behind him.
“Please, man! It’s just me!” you yell, voice cracking. “Something’s out here! I don’t know what the hell it is, but it’s not right!”
Nothing.
“I don’t know if you can hear me, but I swear to God, I’m alone! I just—” You cut yourself off, pressing your forehead to the door. Your heart is hammering so hard it hurts. Your fingers curl into fists against the cold metal. You were right behind him. You made it. Why wouldn’t he open the door?
Then—laughter.
Not Rosendo’s.
Not in your head.
Behind you.
It starts as a low, gravelly chuckle, rising from the darkness beyond the tree line. Not human. Not quite.
“Oh, Bryan.”
Your stomach drops.
“You thought he’d help you?”
You don’t turn around. Your breath catches in your throat, skin going cold.
“You thought this was about friendship?” The voice is mocking, smooth as oil, slipping into the cracks in your resolve. “Rosendo played the game right. You? You’re still begging for scraps.”
You squeeze your eyes shut. It’s a trick.
“He was right to leave you. This is survival. And you, my friend, are losing.”
Your hands shake against the door. Rosendo could still open it. He could change his mind.
“But don’t worry,” the voice soothes, closer now. “Your story doesn’t have to end here.”
A breeze moves through the jungle, sending a shiver down your spine. You need to act. You could stay here, keep knocking, keep pleading. Maybe Rosendo will listen. Maybe he’ll let you in before it’s too late.
Or you could turn around. Face whoever—or whatever—is speaking. Maybe it has something to offer. Maybe it’s right.
Or you could take matters into your own hands. You eye the building, searching for another way inside. If Rosendo won’t open the door, you’ll find your own way in. Maybe the roof. It may at least provide temporary separation from whatever is mocking-or hunting-you.
But whatever you do—you have to do it now.
The voice chuckles again, circling you in the dark.
Bryan’s Options
- Wait: Keep knocking, keep begging, keep hoping Rosendo will let you in. Maybe he will. Maybe he won’t.
- Follow the Voice: Turn to the darkness, embrace what it offers. Maybe it will save you. Maybe it will consume you.
- Climb the Building: Find another way inside. If Rosendo won’t open the door, you’ll break in yourself.
Part 12: The Island’s Disease
Mike
This is the right thing to do.
That thought loops in your head like a chant, steady, rhythmic, yours but not yours. The whispers no longer claw and snarl for attention—they don’t need to. You’re already listening.
You push through the dense jungle, sweat clinging to your skin, exhaustion weighing your limbs down like you’ve been carrying something heavy for miles. Maybe you have. Maybe it’s been the whispers. Maybe it’s been this decision.
The matchbox in your pocket feels warm, like it’s been absorbing heat from your body. The hammer from the toolbox swings at your side, a steady companion. The whispers remind you why you have them, why you need them.
“Burn it down. Let the fire cleanse the wound.”
You tell yourself it makes sense. The island is sick, infected, suffering. The structure is wrong. That’s what they’ve been telling you. You just have to do this one thing. And maybe—just maybe—the smoke will rise high enough for someone to see. Maybe this is the only way to get out of here.
“The fire will set you free.”
You step into a clearing and freeze.
There it is.
The structure rises like a tumor out of the earth. All thick, twisted arms, legs, torsos and faces, knotted together in an unnatural web of horror. It pulses. You swear it moves, breathes, a wet, sickening sound sloshing beneath its surface. The monstrous structure leaks something black, something thick. It reeks of rot, of decay, of suffering. The whispers hum their approval.
“It is diseased. It must be destroyed.”
You pull out the matchbox with numb fingers. The first match scrapes against the box, flares to life. The tiny flame dances in front of you, flickering, eager, waiting. Then—movement. A figure steps out of the structure. You tense, fingers tightening around the match. The whispers grow sharp, urgent.
“Don’t let them stop you.”
The figure is familiar. Something in the posture, in the way they hold themselves—it tugs at the edge of your memory, but the moment you try to focus, it slips away. Their face doesn’t make sense. It’s obscured, shifting, flickering in and out like bad reception. Dark smoke swirls around their head, crackling with blue light, hiding their features. Your stomach twists.
“They are part of the sickness. If they remain, so does the disease.”
The whispers are right. You can feel it. The structure isn’t just a wound on the island—it’s a wound inside you, inside everything. This thing in front of you—this faceless thing—it’s keeping the sickness alive. Your mind is split. The sliver of you that still belongs to yourself hesitates, fights back. But the rest of you? It knows what must be done.
Burn it. Drop the match. Let the flames devour the sickness. Destroy them. Smash the hammer into their skull, take them down before they infect anything else. See what’s inside. Fight the instinct to destroy. Step into the mass, push through the bile and the blackness and find out what’s really here. The figure steps forward.
The match flickers in your hand.
Mike’s Options
- Burn the structure: Drop the match. End the suffering. The whispers have guided you well—this is what must be done.
- Attack the figure: They must be the source of the disease. Destroy them before they spread it further.
- Enter the structure: Step inside the pulsating mass. See for yourself if this truly needs to be destroyed.
Ian
You’re exhausted, but sleep isn’t an option. Not here. Not anywhere.
Instead you sit, running your fingers through the jungle floor beneath you. It’s damp, packed with layers of dead leaves and twigs, but not as suffocating as the rest of this godforsaken island. The walls of this twisted branch structure somehow dull the chaos outside, muting the endless rustling of unseen things moving through the trees, muffling the distant crash of waves against the cliffs.
For the first time since waking up on this island, you don’t feel like you’re being watched. That should be comforting. Instead, it just makes you suspicious. You shift, fingers brushing against something that isn’t dirt. You dig it out—a lump of metal, cold and rusted, edges rounded with age. Turning it over in your hands, you recognize the shape. A pocket watch. Its hands are frozen, stuck on some moment in time that no longer matters.
Weird.
You set it aside and keep searching, unearthing bits and pieces of forgotten things—a hat so decayed it crumbles between your fingers, and then, unbelievably, a platform shoe straight out of the seventies.
“Okay,” you mutter, brushing the dirt from your hands. “Weird is an understatement.”
You glance around the interior of the structure. It’s a tangled mess of thick branches, looping around each other in ways that don’t seem structurally sound, and yet—it holds. The way the wood bends and twists, it almost looks like it was woven rather than grown.
You rise to your feet and press a palm against the wall. It’s warm. Not like sunbaked bark—but like thick leather. A slow, creeping unease crawls up your spine. Then, curiosity overriding common sense, you dig your nail into the surface and peel a sliver of bark away—and freeze.
The sap is red.
Not amber. Not gold. Red.
Like blood.
A slow, thick drop rolls down the exposed wood, but before it can hit the ground, it pulls back. Absorbed. Like the structure is healing itself.
“Okay,” you whisper to yourself. “That’s… horrifying.”
You step back, shaking out your hands like you can fling the wrongness off your fingertips. But then—the wall shifts. You freeze.
The branches—they’re moving.
Not all at once, not violently, but with slow, deliberate intent. A curling, twisting motion, like vines reaching for the sun. And then—the words form.
HELP. ME. YOU. SLEEP.
You don’t breathe. Your body locks up as your brain scrambles for an explanation. The words are crude, uneven, like a child’s first attempt at writing. You watch, pulse hammering, as the smaller twigs tremble, trying to reshape into something else, but failing. Either the island is talking to you, or you’ve finally lost your mind.
You take a slow, measured step back, pulse still racing, but before you can decide what to do, you hear it. Footsteps. A real, solid, human sound. You whip around, heart leaping into your throat, and peer through the entrance of the structure.
Someone is walking into the clearing. For a moment, you don’t care who it is. Relief crashes over you, because—holy shit, it’s another person. Then you recognize him.
Mike.
You almost laugh. Mike! You remember him from the shipwreck, from before everything went to hell. But something’s wrong.
He doesn’t look like himself. His clothes are damp with sweat, his skin pale, but it’s his movements that make your stomach twist. Too stiff, too unnatural. His arms hang too loose at his sides, but when he walks, his spine is too straight, like he’s being held up by invisible strings. You step forward, forcing a grin. “Mike, man, you don’t know how happy I am to see you.” Then he sees you.
And his face twists.
It happens too fast—his expression contorting into something between disgust and terror. His mouth moves like he’s trying to speak, but no sound comes out. His fingers twitch at his sides, spasming like his body is fighting itself. That’s when you notice the hammer tucked into his belt. And the matchbox in his hand. Your stomach drops.
You try again. “Mike, you okay? You look—”
He strikes the match. The tiny flame flares to life, and in its glow, his features look even more warped, more wrong. Then his gaze flicks to the structure behind you.
Oh.
Oh, shit.
He’s not here for you. He’s here for it.
You shift your weight, ready to react, brain racing through the next possible moves. You can try to talk him down, to break through whatever’s happening to him. Maybe there’s still something human left inside. You can lunge for him, knock the match from his hand, stop him by force. But if you attack first, will he fight back?
Or you can cut your losses. Leave the structure, leave Mike, and get the hell out of here before you burn with it. Mike takes another step forward, eyes locked on you like you’re something vile. The match burns between his fingers.
The branches behind you pulse.
Ian’s Options
- Talk to Mike: Try to break through to him, try to reach whatever is left inside. Maybe there’s still something human in there.
- Physically stop him: Grab his wrist, knock the match from his hand—but if you attack first, will he fight back?
- Run: Leave the structure, leave Mike, find somewhere else before you get burned alive with it.
Part 13: The Heart of the Island
(Michelle)
You feel like the island has given you something—a gift of knowledge, drawn straight from its heart. The tree, immense and ancient, should be terrifying, but instead, it radiates a power that feels more like protection than danger. The sap lingers inside you, its warmth spreading through your chest, steadying you, grounding you.
For the first time since waking up on this island, you feel strong. Not just physically, but in some deeper, more unshakable way.
But your body is exhausted.
You glance up at the twisted branches above, considering whether you should climb, seek higher ground. It might be safer up there—out of sight, out of reach. But the thought of losing your grip, of tumbling back down in your sleep, keeps your feet planted.
Instead, you sink down against the rough bark, pressing your back to the tree’s base. It’s solid. Unmoving. A shelter. Rest will give you time to process everything you’ve seen, everything the tree showed you. And maybe, just maybe, someone else will find you here.
As you settle in, the tree’s deep roots cradle you, and the blue moon casts a soft purple glow through its crimson leaves, washing the clearing in hues of midnight and blood. Your eyes grow heavy. You breathe in. The scent of sap. Of earth. Of something ancient and waiting.
And then, you sleep.
The sky burns.
A streak of blue fire tears through the heavens, ripping the night apart. It hits the jungle like a hammer against glass, and the world shatters around it. The trees don’t just fall—they burst, split into flaming splinters. Animals—creatures she has no names for—scatter in blind terror, some too slow to escape the shockwave, their bodies crumpling like paper.
Then comes the silence.
Not real silence, no.
Something worse.
The crater is deep, raw, blackened. At its center, still smoldering, is a crystal the size of a house. Its surface is cracked and leaking something thick, dark, and wrong. The air around it pulses, shimmers like heat off pavement, except there is no warmth. Just an unnatural, radiating cold.
Thin, vein-like strands of glowing blue snake out from its core, creeping like ivy, curling over the ruined earth. The things they touch—leaves, trees, bodies—wither and curl inward, drained of life. The crystal devours.
Then it moves.
Not upward. Down.
It’s not sinking. It’s burrowing.
The ground shakes as it twists and drills its way deeper. It is sinking into the bones of the island.
The island is screaming.
You wake up gasping.
The rough bark of the Bloodwood is solid against your back, grounding you, but your body still hums with the aftermath of the vision. Your hands tingle. You feel hot and cold at once, like your veins are carrying something other than blood. You remember everything.
The island was paradise. And then something came. Something that didn’t belong. Something that took root. Your palm presses against your chest. You should feel sick. The images were violent, horrifying, unbearable—but underneath the fear, there’s something else.
Strength.
The sap is still inside you, soaking into your muscles, settling in your bones. You sit up slowly, rolling your shoulders. You expect stiffness, the ache of sleeping on bare ground. Instead, you feel… better. Lighter. Like the tree rebuilt you in your sleep.
And then—you see them.
At first, it doesn’t register. The jungle is thick with shadow, the morning light still weak, spilling dim streaks of blue through the trees. But then you notice shapes in the darkness. Standing. Watching. Your breath hitches. You turn your head slightly, scanning the perimeter. There are more. To your left. Your right. Behind you.
You’re surrounded.
The Bloodwood creaks behind you, as if aware. You swallow hard, pulse jumping as you lock eyes on the nearest figure. It’s a person—or was. Their clothing is ragged, barely hanging onto a frame that is far too thin. Their skin is grayish in the dim light, their eyes deep pits of shadow. They don’t move, don’t even sway in the breeze.
They look at you.
They look at the tree.
Your fingers dig into the dirt. This is the moment you expect the whispers—the ones you’ve heard others complain of, the ones that have driven people to madness. But the voices don’t come. Instead, there’s only silence.
And yet, you feel them. Their presence presses against you like a held breath, like a moment suspended on the edge of something irreversible.
Waiting.
But for what? Are they afraid of the tree? Are they waiting for you? Are they waiting for it? Something flares inside you.
Anger.
You’ve spent too much time reacting. Too much time being afraid. But this? This is different. You don’t feel weak. You feel like you matter. Like the island chose you. But what does that mean? Your fingers curl into fists. The Bloodwood hums behind you. The sky is beginning to lighten.
The figures don’t move.
Michelle’s Options
- Try to communicate: Step toward them, try to understand what they want. Maybe they aren’t hostile. Maybe they have answers.
- Climb the tree: If it protected you before, maybe it will again. Maybe it will take you somewhere even safer.
- Use your power to fight: The sap gave you something. Strength, energy. If they’re here to take it, maybe it’s time to fight back.
- Run: This isn’t your fight. You have to get out of here while you still can.
Part 14: Over the Edge
Peter
You were meant to be here.
The thought has been your anchor since you first stepped onto the spiral staircase, since you followed the pull deeper and deeper, since you set eyes on The Engine. This machine—this thing—doesn’t belong here. You can feel it in the way the cavern trembles around it, the way the air is thick with something wrong.
You don’t know exactly what it does. But you know it must be stopped.
The Engine churns—an immense, ancient beast embedded in the rock, pipes burrowed deep into the earth like feeding tubes. Its dull, rhythmic grinding fills the cavern, pulsing in your skull. It almost sounds… alive.
You think you’ve found a weakness—a tilted obelisk near the machinery, something heavy enough to damage it if you can push it over. But you need help.
“Chelsea,” you call, your voice swallowed by the hum of the Engine. “Come on, help me! We can break this thing!”
You turn, expecting her to rush forward, to respond.Instead, she stands frozen at the threshold of the cavern, as if something is holding her there.
Chelsea
You should move. You should take another step forward. But you don’t. Something is wrong.
You are wrong.
The walls pulse. The blue glow seeps into your skin. It’s in you now. It’s in your veins, threading through your nerves, whispering through your muscles. You shouldn’t have touched it. Your own voice murmurs in your mind, urgent, desperate.
Peter must be stopped.
You don’t want that. You never wanted that. But your body isn’t listening. Your arms feel weighted, stiff. Each step feels less like your own. Peter turns fully to face you, and for the first time, you see hesitation on his face. Maybe he’s realizing, too late, that he shouldn’t have called you here.
Peter
You take a step forward. Then another. Chelsea doesn’t react. Your stomach knots. Something about her stance, about the rigid way she’s holding herself, isn’t right.
And then you see it—her eyes.
The glow from the cavern walls shouldn’t reflect like that. It shouldn’t look like it’s inside her.
You stop cold.
This was a mistake. You wasted time. You should have focused on the Engine. You should have destroyed it the moment you got here. You spin away from her, pulse hammering, scanning the chamber for another way to break this thing. And that’s when you see them.
Bones.
Embedded in the cavern walls. Tangled in the gears. Crushed into the sand.
Hundreds. Thousands. Some old, some fresh.For the first time, standing before the thing you swore to destroy, you wonder if it will destroy you first.
Chelsea
Peter turns away from you. The voice in your head—your own voice—wails. No, no, no, no!
You can’t let him do this. Your foot drags forward against your will. You dig in, mentally, physically, fighting back with everything you have.
“Just let me talk to him! Let me understand!”
The island doesn’t answer.
“I don’t want to hurt him! I just want—”
Your muscles lock. The walls glow brighter. The blue light twists through your bones, igniting something in you that isn’t yours. Peter is too focused on the Engine now. He isn’t watching you anymore.
He should be.
Peter
Your breath comes fast, uneven. The hum of the Engine vibrates in your skull.
There—a panel.
Carved into the rock behind the machine, nearly invisible beneath centuries of dust. Symbols, markings—words? You step closer, brushing debris aside, trying to make sense of them.
Is this it? The key to shutting it down?
Your hands move frantically over the surface, searching for a latch, a switch, anything—
You don’t hear it coming. Something slams into your back.
You lurch forward, arms flailing.
And then you’re falling.
Chelsea
You lost.
You fought. You did everything you could. But it doesn’t matter. Your body isn’t yours anymore. The moment Peter turned away, the last thread of control snapped. The thing inside you—the force twisting through your veins—took over completely.
And you lunged.
You hit Peter hard, harder than you ever thought possible.
And now you’re both sliding.
The ground beneath you—a shifting river of bones and dust—is dragging you down. The Engine’s glow brightens. The turbine’s spinning gears accelerate. The cavern roars with grinding metal, with movement, with anticipation.
It is hungry.
Your hands scramble for something to hold onto, but the slope is too steep, the bones too brittle, the ground too eager to swallow you whole. Peter is ahead of you, struggling, reaching, but the Engine wants him first.
And for the first time, the voice in your head goes silent. Because it doesn’t need to tell you what to do anymore.
You’re already exactly where it wants you.
Peter & Chelsea’s Options
- Fight to Escape: Claw your way up, scramble for solid ground, and try to pull yourself out before it’s too late.
- Try to Save the Other: Reach for the other, risking your own survival to pull them back from the brink.
- Let Go: Stop fighting. Stop resisting. Accept whatever comes next.
Part 15: To Exist
(Lauren)
Lauren doesn’t remember dying.
Oh, sure, there was the water filling her lungs, the panic, the sound of steel groaning as the ship was pulled under. That all happened. But the actual dying part? That’s fuzzy. Probably for the best. Dying isn’t supposed to be a pleasant experience, though now that she thinks about it, neither is whatever this is.
Because this is weird.
She’s standing—or maybe floating?—on what she assumes is the ocean floor, though she has no way of being sure. It’s dark down here. Not completely black, but dim, illuminated only by the faintest blue glow filtering through the miles of water above her. It makes the sand look like it’s glowing just a little. Nice touch.
Her body moves forward, walking even though she doesn’t remember deciding to walk. Her limbs feel far away, like she’s controlling them remotely. Was she always this tall? Probably not. But that’s not her problem anymore.
She hears whispers, but they aren’t around her. They’re inside her.
Her own voice, curling into the ears of people she thinks she recognizes. Mocking, taunting. Telling them they’ll never make it, that the island doesn’t want them, that they should just give up. Wow. She’s mean.
Funny, though. She’s pretty sure she was the one who didn’t make it.
Oh well.
The thought should be more concerning than it is, but she’s feeling strangely zen about the whole thing. No past, no future, just an endless drift forward, one foot in front of the other, destination unknown. Was she supposed to have a goal? That feels like something the old Lauren would’ve cared about. The new Lauren is just along for the ride.
She closes her eyes. Or does she have eyes? Something about that doesn’t feel right. She was in a ship. No, she was in a cave. No, she was on a staircase. No, she was something else entirely. A compass, a wolf, a thing that moved without thinking.
None of it matters. She lets it all go.
And when she opens her eyes—if that’s even what she’s doing—she’s no longer walking.
She’s floating.
Rising.
Huh. That’s new.
It’s slow at first, a gentle pull toward the surface, her body drifting as if weightless. The glow from the moon above grows stronger, the water becoming lighter, clearer. And suddenly, she knows something with absolute certainty.
She isn’t alone up there.
Her head tilts—her neck doesn’t really move, but the thought of tilting is enough—and she sees someone. A shape swimming above her, cutting through the water.
Lauren knows this person.
Or at least, she did.
But that’s the funny thing about memories. They don’t really belong to her anymore.
She reaches up. Not a decision, not a thought—just movement, automatic, expected.
Her fingers close around an ankle.
The woman jerks, thrashes—but there’s no struggle. Not really. Lauren pulls her under effortlessly, smoothly, like guiding someone through a door they were meant to enter.
That’s when it happens.
The woman stops being a woman.
She becomes something else.
A warmth in the water, a pulse of energy. A source.
And Lauren is starving.
Not in a physical way. More in a “if I don’t consume this thing right now, I will cease to exist entirely” kind of way. And wow, that’s a pretty intense revelation to have while you’re upside-down in the middle of the ocean.
Lauren considers this. Or maybe the thing inside Lauren considers this. Does it matter? Does anything?
The answer is no.
Except for this:
This thing—this food—is made of the same essence as her, but more. It has shape, direction, something solid, while Lauren is just… barely here. And if she doesn’t take it, if she doesn’t absorb it, then she will fade. Disappear completely.
Extinction or survival. The oldest question in the world. Now, here’s the weird part.
Lauren has no idea how to consume someone.
She assumes it’s not with her teeth. Or maybe it is. It’s probably not important. The how doesn’t matter. The doing is what matters.
She doesn’t even know if this is really a choice.
But hey—what the hell.
Let’s pretend it is.
Lauren’s Options
- Consume the woman: Take her essence, become stronger, return to the island whole. Live forever.
- Let go: Release her, sink into nothingness, disappear completely. Maybe that’s what was supposed to happen all along.
Now.
Breathe.
Survivor Hamilton 