Previously on SURVIVE: The Island…
The night stretched over the island like a shroud, thick and suffocating, as though the very air had conspired to weigh upon those who yet lingered. A reckoning had been promised, and now, at last, it arrived.
Beneath the waves, a swimmer once buoyed by triumphant whispers found herself seized by a touch as frigid as the grave. Something unseen had claimed her ankle, something patient and knowing. Her victory had been a lie, a cruel indulgence granted before the inevitable pull into the depths. And another—one who no longer had lungs to drown. No hands to grasp. No face left to wear.
Further out, another soul clung to splintered wood, floating in shark-infested waters. He had his moment of dominion, only to see the abyss shift its gaze to easier prey. The decision loomed: to intervene or to survive. Nearby, another figure broke the surface, gasping. The night sky bore witness to the struggle as the currents demanded a choice—to swim for safety, to fight, or to sink and meet the beast.
The jungle bore witness to the unraveling of its unwelcome visitors. By firelight, one stood watch over another, a companion turned stranger, caught between who she was and what the island wished her to become. Then, as if summoned, she fled into the night, leaving her ally scorched and alone, unsure whether to chase her or to flee the specter left behind.
Deeper still, in tunnels untouched by the sun, one man reached for another, yet found his pleas drowned beneath the silent acceptance of one who no longer feared the dark. The decision had been made long before words could shape it. One would remain. The other would run.
Elsewhere, beneath the canopy of an ancient and twisted tree, another soul stirred. A vision had come upon her—one of ruin, of a paradise defiled. And before her, the watchers gathered, their hollowed eyes expectant. She could listen. She could climb. She could flee. The island had not yet decided.
Beyond, on a forsaken shore, the beacon loomed, calling to the lost. One who was meant to guide had failed his task. The restless ocean stirred, and from the abyss emerged a nameless, formless thing devoid of pity. “One of you must go.” The choice was clear: sacrifice, betrayal, or flight, but escape was futile when the island chose the path beneath one’s feet.
Not far, in the tangled ruins of the island’s past, a door sealed shut, trapping one man inside and another out. One stared at the horrors beyond, at the thing that smiled without a mouth, while the other traced fingers over maps of the dead’s secrets. A flame trembled in the fingers of one whose resolve had been devoured by whispers, a hammer swinging at his side. Would he burn it or let the whispers guide his hand?
Below, in the earth’s belly, the great machine churned—a place of power and hunger. A man had come to destroy it. He called for aid, but it was not from a friend. The one who answered was no longer themselves; something had coiled within their mind, turning flesh into the unknowable. And so, together, they fell.
And as the first slivers of dawn crept over the horizon, the island’s hunger did not wane.
It will never wane.
Jump to:
Andrew & Cowin
Lauren & Jordanna
Boon
Mayo
Jim
Travis
Jill
Michelle
Mike
Ian
Bryan & Rosendo
Tyfanna & Paul
Graham & Mayoli
Andrea
Jordan & Chris
Peter & Chelsea
Part 1: Circling
Andrew
Cowin’s up ahead, swimming toward you like he’s got a plan. You don’t know what the plan is, but you respect the commitment. He hasn’t looked back once. That, at least, is reassuring. If there’s hesitation, if there’s doubt, it doesn’t show. Maybe that’s what you need right now—someone who acts first and questions later.
You’ll work together to solve your problems.
Like the shark.
The fin slips beneath the surface, vanishing in the dark, moonlit waves. That’s never a good sign. Sharks disappear when they’re about to do something unpleasant. Also disappearing? Jordanna. You had caught a glimpse of her up ahead—just a shape cutting toward shore, a movement against the rhythmic churn of the water. Then she was gone, dragged under in an instant. Another shark? Maybe.
Not your problem right now.
You focus on paddling forward, slow and steady. Cowin’s still going, apparently fearless, which is funny because you’re pretty sure he would’ve pissed himself if he’d had any fresh water today. Finally, you reach him. The shark is still out there, somewhere, but you don’t see it. That, somehow, feels worse.
“Hey,” you whisper, keeping your voice low, because maybe sharks respond to stealth. “Any ideas, or are we just winging it?“
Cowin keeps swimming. He’s probably doing the same thing you are—trying not to think about how fast things could go to hell. And then you see it.
Not lunging, not attacking—just circling. A slow, lazy orbit around the both of you, the way a dolphin might, if dolphins were massive, terrifying, and had dead black eyes.
You expect Cowin to panic. Maybe start kicking for shore, maybe start flailing. But he just keeps moving forward. And not for the first time today, you feel confused. Because the shark isn’t acting like a shark anymore.
It’s not stalking. It’s not hungry. It’s just… there. Watching.
You’re about to say something when it moves in—fast, but not aggressive. It closes the gap between you and Cowin and bumps him.
It isn’t an attack.
But it isn’t friendly, either.
Cowin doesn’t react at first. Maybe he’s too scared. Maybe he just hasn’t processed it. But you have.
The shark knows exactly what it’s doing.And suddenly, this feels less like survival and more like a test.
Cowin
You hate sharks.
Not in the personal, deep-seated way some people hate snakes or spiders. You’ve never been bitten, never lost a friend to one. But still—they’re sharks. They have dead eyes, too many teeth, and they don’t blink. That’s unnatural.
Of course, so is this entire island.
So when you, a perfectly rational human being, start swimming toward a shark, you figure that either desperation or brain damage has finally caught up with you. bAt least Andrew is nearby. He scared it off once. Maybe together, you can make enough noise, splash around, get it to back off again.
That idea lasts all of five seconds—right up until the fin vanishes beneath the moonlit waves.
You don’t say anything. Neither does Andrew. Somehow, you both know: now is not the time to make noise. You keep moving, arms pulling through the water, heart hammering in your chest. The distance closes. Andrew reaches out first, gripping the floating beam. You grab hold too, exhaling as you prepare to climb up. And that’s when something slams into your side.
Panic seizes you. You expect pain, tearing flesh, blood spilling into the water.
But none of that happens.
Because it wasn’t a bite.
You jerk your head around, expecting to see a wide, toothy grin waiting to drag you under. Instead, you see the shark—circling. Not attacking.
Andrew speaks first. “Uh… I think it just bumped you.”
No shit.
You open your mouth to say something back, but you stop. Because the shark doesn’t look like it’s waiting for an easy meal. It looks like it’s…leading you. Like a chaperone escorting two stupid, flailing students across a dance floor.
“That’s weird,” Andrew mutters, watching as the shark guides them toward the beach. “But, you know… maybe we just made a new friend.”
You stare at him.
A new friend. Right.
But there’s no denying the fact that, for the first time since you woke up on this godforsaken island, the voices are gone. Just like that. No slow fade-out, no resistance. Just silence where there should be screaming. You should be relieved.
You’re not.
Finally, your feet find sand. The water grows shallow. The shark circles once, then vanishes into the waves. You see Andrew salute the damn thing.
Then, you see the beach. A fire burns at the jungle’s edge. Someone built it. But who? And why? A figure crouches by the water, hands submerged in the tide. He doesn’t react to you. Not yet. The jungle looms, dark and waiting. Open, empty. Maybe the safest path. Maybe not.
Andrew & Cowin’s Options
- The Fire: Someone is there, tending the flames. A survivor? A trap? Fire means warmth, but it also makes them visible.
- The Man by the Water: He kneels at the shoreline, hands pressed into the ocean. He hasn’t looked at them. Yet. But something about him feels… off.
- The Jungle: No people, no immediate threats. And you never even went into the jungle. But is being alone the best option?
Part 2: To Take or To Be Taken
Lauren
You don’t hear the whispers anymore.
Instead, they slip past your lips, curling away in thin ribbons of sound that dissolve into the water. Words? No, not really. Just the shape of words, stretching into the deep like ink, dispersing before they can mean anything.
Maybe they don’t need to mean anything.
You pulled her down—that much is certain. The woman is limp in your grasp, her ankle cool in your fingers, her body shifting with the slow, lazy pull of the tide. But you don’t remember reaching for her. You don’t remember deciding. And yet, here you are.
Your body moves without you now, limbs following a rhythm that isn’t yours. There’s no voice guiding you anymore, because there doesn’t need to be. Just a feeling. A presence. The inevitable tightening of strings.
Jordanna
The water envelopes you. Cold, vast, endless.
Lauren’s grip is unshakable, fingers wrapped tight around your ankle, pulling, dragging. You twist, kick, but it’s like fighting the current—strong, unyielding, impersonal. The shock is worse than the fear. Lauren? It doesn’t make sense. She went down with the ship. She was gone.
And yet, here she is.
Your lungs burn. The pressure builds behind your eyes, a deep, crushing weight, and then you see them—her eyes.
They glow, an unnatural blue, rippling like the ocean, like a beacon pulling you in. And for a moment, the panic subsides. Something about them settles you, a quieting of the struggle, as if it doesn’t matter anymore. Maybe it’s not so bad, being down here.
“Someone wins. Someone loses. Someone consumes. Someone is consumed. That’s the rule.”
The voice is in your mind, and yet it feels older than that. It feels like something you should have always known.
But the other whispers—they’re different. Softer, quieter, like long-lost friends finding each other again after years apart. They don’t feel like a warning. They feel like… relief.
And then Lauren lets go.She doesn’t push you away, doesn’t force you up—she just releases. Her fingers slip from your skin, her body going still, weightless, sinking slowly into the dark. The glow in her eyes flickers once, twice—then fades into nothing.
Lauren
The final steps.
This is how it ends, isn’t it?
You pulled her down. That was you. Or at least, the part of you that’s winning.
But you won’t finish it.
You won’t consume her, even though you know—deep down, in the shrinking part of yourself that still thinks like Lauren—that doing so would give you what you need. A flicker of strength. A moment of clarity. A way back to yourself.
You could be whole again.
You don’t need the whispers to tell you that. You already know.
Your fingers tighten. The woman stirs. She doesn’t struggle, doesn’t fight. Maybe she doesn’t even know you’re still here. Maybe, to her, you’re just another black shadow in the deep. Another consequence of whatever cosmic joke this place was always meant to be.
You think, I should have gotten off that ship.
The thought floats up like a half-remembered dream, a relic from another life. Sara M looked so peaceful, didn’t she? Maybe she knew something you didn’t. Maybe that’s why she never woke up. Maybe she was already gone, and you were the fool who stayed behind, clutching at something that had already been lost.
“This is how it works, Lauren.”
The thought isn’t yours. But it fits in your mind like it is.
You could take it—everything she is, everything she could be. That’s what this place demands, after all. Someone wins, someone loses. Someone consumes. Someone is consumed.
That’s the rule.
And maybe you want to.
Just a little.
Just enough to keep going.
Because now, finally, you understand. If you take her in, if you swallow what’s left of her, maybe you’ll be strong enough to pull yourself back together. Maybe you’ll be able to walk away. Find your body again. Find your mind again.
Maybe you won’t have to disappear like all the others.
Maybe you’ll survive.
He’s still there. Watching. Waiting. Letting you come to the right conclusion on your own.
You know what happens if you refuse. You can feel it creeping in already, your edges coming undone, your thoughts slipping through the cracks, spilling out into the dark.
You are becoming something else.
Something open. Something waiting to be filled.
But taking a life isn’t the way.
Your fingers loosen. You let go.
The tide rushes in.
Something flickers—just a face, a voice, a name, bobbing up like a scrap of wreckage from a long-sunken ship.
“Oh. Right. That was Jordanna.”
And just like that—you’re gone.
Your fingers slip from her ankle. The last tether to yourself, severed.
There is no more Lauren. Not really.
There is only the Hollow.
Jordanna
And then Lauren lets go.
She doesn’t push you away, doesn’t force you up—she just releases. Her fingers slip from your skin, her body going still, weightless, sinking slowly into the dark. The glow in her eyes flickers once, twice—then fades into nothing.
You kick upward, breaking the surface, gasping, coughing, alive.
Your body feels different. Warmer, even in the cold. There’s a pulse in your ankle, something running up your leg, something threading into your bones. You don’t know what it is, but it doesn’t hurt. If anything, you feel stronger.
Stronger than you should.
The whispers are still there, faint now, hiding, retreating. Letting you have your moment. Letting you believe this is over.
But you know better.
Nothing comes without a price.
You swim, breath steadying, heart still racing but no longer from fear—no, something steadier, something more certain. You’re still here. The island didn’t take you. Not yet.
The beach looms ahead, dark and waiting, but it isn’t empty.Ahead, near the jungle’s edge, a fire crackles. It flickers gold against the trees, warm, controlled. Near the water, a figure stands at the shoreline. Motionless, watching the waves. You can’t make out his face in the dim light, but the whispers—they stir when you see him. Hungry. Expectant. And then there’s the jungle. Dark, tangled, full of unseen dangers. But it’s away from anyone else. Away from whatever just happened to you.
Jordanna’s Options
- The Fire: A flicker of warmth at the jungle’s edge, controlled, deliberate. Someone is there, tending it. Maybe a survivor. Maybe something worse. But fire is safety, right?
- The Man by the Water: A shadow at the shoreline, standing motionless. He isn’t looking at you. But the whispers… they stir when you see him, lean forward, hungry.
- The Jungle: Everything about this place is wrong. But if you’ve learned anything, it’s that sometimes the worst dangers are the ones that look the most welcoming. Maybe solitude is safest. Maybe not.
Part 3: Blue Eyes in Black Water
(Boon)
You crouch by the shore, breath ragged, pulse hammering against the walls of your skull. The night has stretched impossibly long, an aching, relentless thing. The fire, the screams, the way Mayo’s face had twisted into something wrong—all of it lingers in your mind like the afterimage of a lightning strike.
You’re unraveling. Fraying at the edges.
The ocean whispers before you, calm now, smooth as black glass under the dying moon. You press your burned hand into the water, and pain detonates up your arm—searing, bone-deep, worse than the fire itself. You bite back a scream, gritting your teeth so hard you swear something cracks.
And then, from the water, laughter.
Not in your head like the others. Not some sick echo of your own thoughts. Real. Someone—something—laughing, low and knowing.
The tide shifts. Something rises.
A head.
Black, waterlogged skin stretches too tight over an angular face, its blue-lit eyes too large, too round, reflecting the setting moon like twin mirrors. Its mouth, barely a slit, doesn’t move, but the laughter rolls out anyway, curling in the air like smoke.
“You won’t resist for long.”
The words slip from its unmoving lips, light as breath. The voice is wrong—like it was never meant for human ears.
“Soon, you’ll be like the rest of us.”
The rest of us.
Your stomach turns cold. You know, with an awful, sinking certainty, that this thing was once a man. Maybe someone like you. Maybe someone who washed up here a long, long time ago.
The creature slithers in the shallows, rising, sinking, playing with the space between you like a cat toying with a cornered rat.
You take a step back. Slow. Controlled. You want nothing to do with whatever this thing is.
And that’s when the hands burst from the sand.
They clamp around your ankles, wet and impossibly strong, black fingers digging deep, pulling, pulling—your balance shatters and you hit the ground hard, air punched from your lungs as you thrash, kicking, fighting, but the grip tightens.
The laughter grows. More voices now, rising in a chorus of mirth. The sand shifts beneath you, something pulling you under, inch by inch, a slow, deliberate sinking.You twist, your burnt hand screaming as you try to claw free.
Boon’s Options
- Fight like hell: Thrash, kick, use every ounce of strength to rip yourself free.
- Scream for help: Even if no one is there, even if no one is coming, you refuse to be taken quietly.
- Dig into the sand: Claw at the earth, anchor yourself, hold on like your life depends on it. Because it does.
Part 4: Ecos de Quien Eras
(Mayo)
Your lungs burn, your muscles ache, and for the first time in hours—maybe days—you are alone inside your own head. The jungle is still around you, thick and humid, the smell of damp earth and rotting leaves filling your nose. But it’s the silence inside that makes your breath catch. The voices have quieted.
For a split second, you wonder if you ever really changed. Was it just panic, exhaustion, stress? Were you ever truly losing yourself, or was that another lie the whispers fed you? Then, you look at the woman standing in front of you.
She is thin, filthy, covered in dirt and scratches, her hair a tangled mess, her eyes sharp. She looks tired but focused, like someone who has spent years running and refuses to fall. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. Because she looks like you. Not the Mayo you’ve become. Not the Mayo the island tried to shape. She looks like who you used to be.
Your chest tightens, and suddenly, the jungle around you doesn’t feel empty anymore. It’s watching. And then, just as suddenly, the silence is gone.
The whispers explode back into your mind, louder than before, a screaming, screeching panic that crashes over you like a wave.
“RUN.”
“DON’T LET HER TOUCH YOU.”
“YOU BELONG HERE.”
“YOU’RE NOT IN TROUBLE FOR FAILING US. YOU CAN STILL FIX THIS.”
They pour into you, twisting, pleading, trying every tactic at once. You aren’t in danger. You aren’t a prisoner. You just need to listen.
The woman takes a slow step forward. Her eyes soften, her breath evens, her arms open.
The voices shift. They coax, sweeten.
“We’re not lying. You’re safe with us. You don’t need to be afraid. No one is going to consume you or break you down into energy or turn you into a monster. That’s just silly.”
You don’t think. You step forward and embrace her.
Something snaps.
The jungle shudders, recoiling. The whispers don’t just scream—they wail, ripping through your skull, clawing at the last scraps of control they have left. But it’s too late. Because you remember.
“Claudia.”
The name hits you like a thunderclap.
Your sister. You have a sister.
She grips you tight, her arms solid, her heartbeat hammering against yours. She whispers, “Te estaba esperando.”
Your breath shakes. The jungle rustles. The voices hiss like dying embers.
Claudia doesn’t let go. She grabs your hand, starts leading you forward. And as you follow, you hear the voices fading—like someone is turning them down, lowering the volume on this cursed island’s control.
For the first time since the shipwreck, you feel free.
Mayo’s Option
- The Question: The voices are gone. Claudia is real. But there’s so much you don’t understand. You have time for one question—just one.
Part 5: The One Who Watched
(Jim)
I tried to do the right thing.
The words hammer through your head in time with your pounding footsteps, your breath ragged, your legs burning as you push yourself forward.
“I tried to help Travis when the wolf came. He was bitten. I thought the cave, despite the noises, might give us answers—might give me a clue about what’s happening here. But it was a trap. And Travis… he’s connected to it now.”
The jungle is lightening just a little, dawn creeping up behind the tangled branches. You don’t look back. You don’t know if those things in the cavern will chase you. Maybe they don’t need to. Maybe you left exactly the way they wanted you to.
The thought makes your stomach twist, but there’s no time to dwell. You have to keep moving. If something follows, you can make it back to safety. And if that fails… worst comes to worst, you can climb a tree.
Then—impact.
You collide with something solid and warm, sending you both stumbling back. Your instincts take over, hands up, ready to fight—until you see them.
Two women.
The first is covered in dirt, her hair a tangled mess, her clothes torn and worn. She looks like she’s had a rough day. But the other one—the one who immediately steps in front of her—she looks like she’s had a rough life.
The second woman’s face is sharp, wary, her eyes trained on you with a predator’s focus. Even in the dim light, you can see the exhaustion carved into her features, the way her muscles are tense, ready to spring.
“¿Quién eres?” she demands.
You lift your hands, trying to calm them—especially her. She’s the dangerous one here, the one who’d take you down first if you made the wrong move.
“Jim,” you say, catching your breath. “I woke up on the beach. No memory of how I got here. Been trying to survive ever since.”
The first woman—Mayo, she says her name is—nods and offers a similar story. But you can tell she’s hiding something. There’s a hesitation, a flicker of something in her expression. And just for a second, you swear her eyes glow faintly blue.
It’s not the moon. You can’t even see the moon through the jungle. You don’t call her out on it. Not yet. But you don’t forget it, either. Finally, the second woman relaxes. Not completely—she’s still watching you—but enough to let her shoulders loosen.
“”Deberías venir con nosotros”,” Claudia says.
“Where?”
“Hay un lugar al que Mayo debe ir. Un lugar importante.”
You don’t know them. You don’t trust them. But you don’t want to be alone.
“Fine,” you say. “I’m coming too.”
As you walk, a thought gnaws at you.
You have just one question.
Jim’s Option
- The Question: You are safe for now. Claudia is here. But there’s so much you don’t understand. You have time for one question—just one.
Part 6: Your Pack
(Travis)
You made every choice yourself.
That’s what you tell yourself as you stand among them, the dim glow of the cavern painting your skin in eerie shades of blue. You fought. You ran. You bled. You tried to survive. And yet, every path, every step led here, to this place, to them.
The whispers don’t urge you anymore. They don’t need to.
The pain in your arm—the place where the creature’s fangs sank deep, where the island itself first took root in you—isn’t pain anymore. It’s cold, electric, alive. It hums beneath your skin, threading through your bones, reshaping you.
You could have turned away.
Jim did.
You almost laugh at that. Jim ran. He looked at what was happening to you and decided it wasn’t worth saving. You should be angry. Maybe you are. But as you take a breath, you feel something else, something deeper than anger.
You don’t need him anymore.
The others—your pack—are waiting.
Their glowing eyes aren’t hungry. They aren’t cruel. They are watching, expectant, patient. Their leader steps forward, moving like mist over water, sleek and silent. His voice isn’t something you hear. It’s something you feel.
“You understand now.”
You nod.
Because you do.
The leader gestures toward the cavern wall, where lines of pulsing blue glow twist and coil like veins, a living network carved into the stone. Some lines burn brighter than others, clusters of deeper blue pulsing like heartbeats.
As you step closer, you see movement.
Not in the stone. In your mind.
You eat.
The first flash comes sharp, sudden—a woman, screaming as she falls into the jungle, her body convulsing, her skin blooming with blue. Her voice isn’t words—it’s a howl, broken and raw.
Then another.
A man kneeling in the sand, carving symbols into the earth with shaking hands, his eyes already burning bright, his breath fogging in the night air as his human body gives way to something else.
More and more—the images spill over you, flashes of those who came before you. Those who resisted. Those who gave in.
“They were like you.”
The leader’s voice curls inside your skull, gentle, coaxing.
“Now they are like us.”
The cold in your arm spreads. Your chest tightens, your breath catches, and then—it begins.
Pain.
Not burning. Not searing. Something deeper. Like your body is folding in on itself, shifting piece by piece, bone by bone.
You drop to your knees. Hands clutching at your arms, your ribs, your throat. Your pulse is wrong. Too fast, too slow.
The pack doesn’t move to help you.
This is the way it must be.
Something inside you snarls. You are being unmade.
But another part of you—the part the island claimed the moment you stepped onto its soil—knows better.
You aren’t being unmade.
You are being shaped.
You are the cub, the new blood, the next hunter.
And then, for the first time, the leader steps close. His presence drowns out everything—the cavern, the pain, even the remnants of your human thoughts. His voice is deep and endless, sinking into the marrow of your bones.
“He will want to meet you.”
The words hit you like a flood, like hunger, like fear and elation wrapped into one.
You want to ask who—who is He? But the leader already knows. They all do.
“The Master watches.”
Your heart thrums. Your body shakes. The shifting inside you feels less like pain and more like potential.
The Master.
Not a whisper. Not a creature. Not the island itself.
Something bigger.
You don’t even know how you got here. You don’t remember your life before the island.
But now, you have a future.
Travis’ Options
- Follow the Leader, Embrace the Change: The pack waits. The leader steps forward, silent. Transformation has begun—why fight it? Step into the darkness, ready to meet the Master and become what you were meant to be.
- Follow the Leader, Resist the Change: Your body shifts, but your mind clings to the past. The pack accepts you, but for how long? Each step into the cavern pulls you further from who you were. How much can you hold onto before it’s too late?
- Devour the Blue Glow: The walls pulse with life, and your hunger burns hotter. More. You need more. But what happens when you take too much?
Part 7: A Baptism
(Jill)
You sit at the edge of a sacred pool, its surface a mirror of liquid twilight. The memories of your journey—the labyrinth’s whispering shadows, the elusive calls of unseen guides, and the bittersweet dreams of what once was—drift through your mind like fragments of a half-remembered hymn. The cavern around you hums with ancient secrets, yet you feel an inner calm, a steadfast faith that fills you with hope.
Despite the strangeness that has shadowed your every step, you trust the island to guide you.
Slowly, you reach up and pluck a few luscious fruits from a nearby vine. Their skin is cool and dewy, and you bundle them carefully into the pocket of your worn jacket—a quiet promise of nourishment and renewal. Each fruit is a token from the island, a reminder that even in the depths of mystery, life endures.
With a deep, steadying breath, you dive into the crystalline pool. The water embraces you like a long-lost friend, warm and inviting against your skin. As you glide beneath its surface, you notice the water shimmers with red-gold streaks, as if infused with the very essence of the island’s heart. The cool liquid carries whispers of ancient lore and untold power, each ripple a silent pledge of transformation.
Suddenly, the gentle current gives way to a relentless surge.
You are swept into an underground river, its pull both inexorable and strangely tender. The river’s depths reveal a world of wonder—a corridor lined with bioluminescent roots that pulse like the veins of a living being, and walls etched with timeworn symbols that glow with an eerie, comforting light. The current twists and turns, showing you fleeting glimpses of mystical carvings and flickering images that remind you of what you saw.
A time when the island was whole and uncorrupted.
Before you know it, the underwater embrace releases you, depositing you onto a velvet-soft beach. The darkness of the underground seems to have been a dream, for now, the horizon blushes with the gentle light of dawn.
You cough and gasp.
The cool air a shocking contrast to the warmth beneath the waves. In this new light, you marvel at how you never even realized night had fallen, as if the island itself has fast-forwarded the passage of time.
Your eyes are drawn to a solitary figure near the water’s edge—a lone silhouette murmuring softly, as if conversing with the tide. Though you long for companionship again, you know too much, and trust too little in the people who came to this island with you. You have faith in greater things now. So you consider whether to approach or wait and watch.
But your attention shifts when you notice something more: the ship’s mast. You remember the ominous mast you saw when you first awoke on the island—a ghostly relic marking an uncertain beginning. Yet now, this mast stands in an entirely different spot, isolated on a craggy outcrop in the opposite direction. Its new, defiant stance confounds you, as if the island itself has rearranged the landmarks of your memory.
Jill’s Options
- Approach the figure: draw nearer to the man whose quiet mutterings hint at shared secrets and perhaps, the guidance you need.
- Wait and watch: remain at a cautious distance, letting the gentle rhythm of the waves and your own intuition guide your understanding.
- Head toward the mast: turn away from the enigmatic figure and venture down the coastline toward the distant mast, following a path in stark contrast to all you’ve known.
Part 8: The Pulse of the Island
(Michelle)
You are high in the sturdy embrace of the Bloodwood Tree, its ancient, gnarled branches cradling you as if you belong here. The chaotic memories of night have given way to a gentle dawn, and here, suspended among whispering leaves, the heavy weight of fear begins to lift.
The dark orange sun slowly ascends over the distant ocean, its light washing the world in hues of hope and renewal. Up here, the island’s pulse steadies your racing heart, and the taste of the metallic-sweet sap still lingers—a subtle magic now coursing through your veins, a quiet promise of hidden strength.
Below, the jungle awakens in slow motion.
The figures begin to emerge from the undergrowth, their movements deliberate and haunting. They are a disparate assembly, each uniquely shaped yet united by a common palette of deep black and melancholic blue. Their clothes are tattered remnants, and their skin bears the marks of burns and scars, some slight, others grievous.
They approach the base of the tree with an almost reverent focus, their eyes fixed not on you but on the venerable trunk that has become the heart of the island. When they reach the tree, an inexplicable force holds them at bay; in a single, synchronized moment, all their hollow gazes lift upward, locking onto you with an intensity that both chills and fascinates.
In the quiet pause that follows, you let your mind weigh the paths before you.
The surge of confidence you feel from the island’s gift whispers that you are no longer merely a survivor. A part of you, emboldened by the sap’s transformative power, considers stepping down from this leafy sanctuary to confront the figures directly, to test whether your newfound strength might drive them away or perhaps even turn them into allies.
Another thought tugs at you—the idea of unleashing a defiant, resounding cry into the still morning air, a challenge to the silent procession that might shatter their eerie silence. Yet, a more cautious impulse suggests climbing even higher, to gaze out from the tree’s pinnacle and discern the true nature of these figures, their intentions, and the mysteries unfolding below.
The possibilities mingle in your mind as surely as the soft light of dawn. Each option carries the weight of your transformation, the island’s ancient promise, and the burden of its future. In that moment, with the island’s energy pulsing in harmony with your own, you understand that your next move will not only define your fate but also echo through the living, breathing heart of this mysterious world.
In the gentle light of this new dawn, your choice remains suspended between courage and caution, each possibility a step toward a future only the island can foretell.
Michelle’s Options
- Descend to Confront Them: You could climb down from your arboreal sanctuary, meeting the approaching figures head-on with the strength and resolve awakened by the sap.
- Unleash a Defiant Scream: Alternatively, you might let out a bold, echoing cry—a challenge that tests whether these silent shapes will recoil from your assertion of power.
- Ascend Further for Clarity: Or, you could continue to climb higher into the ancient boughs, seeking a broader perspective on your situation and the island that surrounds you.
Part 9: Lullaby of the Lost
(Mike)
The voices assault you like a tidal wave, their furious whispers hammering at your mind as you struggle to maintain control. They are angry—accusing you of hesitation, condemning you for not immediately burning the structure down, and worse, for letting that figure slip away into the darkness. Their relentless cacophony makes your head throb, and every word feels like a weight dragging you down further into despair.
You fight desperately, trying to hold onto the last scraps of your will, but soon the sensation of overwhelming heaviness consumes you, as if gravity itself has multiplied. Your limbs grow leaden, and you feel an inexorable pull, a force drawing you to the ground.
To the very heart of the island.
Your vision narrows to a singular, repulsive goal—the structure before you. It looms like a dark monument of decay, a mass of black, oozing limbs and distorted, disfigured bodies. Every inch of it exudes a sickly, corrupt energy. With the last burst of strength, you force your arms and hands to pull you forward, inch by agonizing inch. The effort is monumental, and as you strain against the pull, the world around you seems to blur.
Closing your eyes to brace yourself, you feel the structure’s texture shift beneath your touch. When you dare to open them again, you see a fleeting vision: for a heartbeat, the grotesque edifice appears transformed.
Its surface aglow with golden wood and shimmering crimson light.
But the vision vanishes in an instant, replaced by the familiar horror—a monstrous façade, complete with a freakish mouth full of hands and feet for teeth, and multiple, ravenous faces for eyes that seem to hunger for your soul.
Despite the terror, you persist.
With gritted teeth and every ounce of strength, you pull yourself into the structure’s archway. As soon as you are inside, the crushing force that had nearly dragged you into the earth relents, and your sense of gravity returns to normal. Gasping for air, you find that you were not half-submerged in dirt at all, but you were sure. Your eyes scan the shifting mass, and there, formed by slowly moving branches and twigs on the interior wall, are the words:
“HELP. ME. YOU. SLEEP.”
The message is twisted into a barely perceptible script, haunting in its simplicity.
Overwhelmed by exhaustion and the weight of the voices, your strength finally fails, and darkness overtakes you. In that black void, you slip into a nightmarish dream—a chaotic montage of every horror the island has inflicted upon you, a swirling vortex of fear and insignificance.
Yet amid the terror, three images begin to emerge from the chaos.
One path leads to a giant tree with deep, reassuring roots. Another shows a glowing waterfall, its luminous cascade promising cleansing renewal. The third reveals a solitary lighthouse, its beacon a steadfast guide against encroaching morning light.
In the dream’s surreal landscape, these symbols call to you, each pulsing with a potential future beyond the madness. You sense that following one of these paths could be your salvation—a way to reclaim your life from the insidious manipulation that has plagued you.
Mike’s Options
- Follow the Giant Tree: Embrace the shelter and enduring strength of ancient roots.
- Follow the Glowing Waterfall: Seek renewal and the promise of cleansing light.
- Follow the Solitary Lighthouse: Trust in the steady beacon of guidance amid the darkness.
Part 10: Shadows on Concrete
(Ian)
The sight of Mike—his eyes vacant and his movements unnervingly stiff as he clutched a lit match and a hammer—jolted you into action—your reaction pure instinct. Adrenaline surges as you break into a run, fleeing from the man you once trusted, from the corrupting influence that has warped him beyond recognition.
You tear through the dense jungle, each pounding step against the leaf-strewn ground punctuated by the early dawn’s dark orange glow filtering through the canopy. As you sprint, fragments of your past decisions flash before your eyes—the careful walk along the beach toward the ship’s mast, the determined climb for a better view, the heart-pounding descent during a raging storm to save Graham.
And then there is the memory of that foreboding structure: a mass of twisted, natural branches sap red as blood. You witnessed it for what it truly was.
A raw, unfiltered manifestation of the island’s power.
Even as your heart races and your muscles scream in protest, you can’t help but wonder what secrets that structure might have revealed if you had stayed. Yet the bitter image of Mike’s deranged behaviour—a stark reminder that even the familiar can be twisted—pushes you onward.
Doubt is swallowed by the jungle’s endless green, leaving only a single, urgent drive: to survive and understand.
Suddenly, the tangled vegetation parts before you, revealing a startling discovery—a square concrete building emerging from the wild tangle of nature. Its cold, unyielding façade is a jarring contrast to the organic decay that clings to every other surface. Before the closed metal door, a dark figure stands motionless, half-hidden in the doorway. High above, on the building’s roof, another shadow lingers, engaged in a silent, cryptic conversation with the figure below.
Their presence radiates an enigmatic authority, halting your desperate flight for a breath.
In that moment of pause, your racing heart slows as you reflect on your path. The clarity of your own perceptions—untainted by illusion—grounds you. You remember every cautious step taken and every risk measured. Your independent spirit, unmarked by the creator’s distortions, has guided you true.
Yet the mystery of the structure lingers in your mind: what deeper truths might it have shared if you had not turned away? The jungle’s early light, filtered through swaying leaves, offers no answers, only a promise that more secrets lie ahead.
Now, at the edge of this concrete enigma, you stand at a crossroads. The muted light of dawn casts long, uncertain shadows on the ground as you weigh your next move. The building, with its austere geometry and the silent dialogue of its occupants, seems to beckon you toward its secrets.
Ian’s Options
- Approach the Figures: Step out of the concealment and move toward the building, daring to confront the unknown in search of answers.
- Hide and Watch: Remain shrouded in the jungle’s shadows, letting your keen eyes capture every detail of the mysterious conversation without drawing attention.
- Hide and Call Out: Venture a word from the darkness, testing the silence to provoke a reaction that might unveil the true intent of those lurking in the gloom.
Part 11: Betrayal Above, Truth Below
Bryan
You stand on the rooftop, your breath ragged, your body still trembling from the betrayal that burns hotter than the exertion in your muscles. Rosendo locked you out. Left you in the dark like a discarded afterthought. The door was right there, inches from your fists, and yet it may as well have been an ocean away.
And then—the voice.
Not Rosendo’s. Not in your head. Behind you.
The laughter was the worst part, the smooth, deliberate cruelty behind it. It snaked into your bones, wrapping tight.
“Oh, Bryan.”
The words return now, still slithering in your ears as you press your hands against the rough, uneven surface of the rooftop. The wind is cool here, brushing against your sweat-slicked skin, but it does nothing to ease the heat boiling inside you. You’re still begging for scraps. The phrase feels carved into your ribs, deeper than any wound.
And then you see him.
The figure.
Standing below, partially obscured in the dimming shadows of night, his form is all blackened skin and crusted filth, as if he’s been burned down to the bone and left to fester. Dirt and leaves cling to him—not caught on his body, but growing from it, threading through the cracked surface of his flesh like deep, ancient roots.
He watches you, head tilted slightly. And then he smiles.
“You feel it, don’t you?”
His voice is smooth, persuasive. A whisper in the back of your mind.
“The rage. The hunger. The need to take control.”
Your fingers twitch, curling against the rooftop as the words settle into your chest. You want to dismiss him outright, to shake off the sensation creeping up your spine, but the longer you stare, the harder it is to look away.
Because he’s not wrong.
Rosendo played you. Locked you out. Left you behind like you weren’t worth a second thought. But this man—this thing—is offering you something else entirely. Power. Revenge. Control.
“Come down, Bryan. Let me help you. You want justice? I can give it to you. You want the truth? Take my hand, and you’ll be able to open that door. Trust me”
And the worst part?
Somewhere deep inside, you believe him.
You shake your head, trying to force clarity into your thoughts. The rooftop feels too open now. The weight of the jungle, the island, the moment itself is pressing against you, demanding a decision.
Your eyes flicker across your surroundings. There—a vent, just wide enough to squeeze through. Maybe it leads inside, maybe it leads nowhere, but it’s a chance to get past the door on your own terms. If you can break in without Rosendo knowing, you might take back control without relying on anyone.
Or… maybe you don’t need to hide. Maybe you don’t need the figure’s help or the vent’s secrecy. You could step down and face him, let him see you’re not afraid. You don’t need to be manipulated—by Rosendo, by this thing, by anyone. You will control your destiny.
The wind shifts. The figure watches. And the choice is yours.
Bryan’s Options
- Accept the figure’s power: Step down and embrace his offer, wielding the strength to open the door and take what should be yours.
- Squeeze inside through the vent: Find another way in, gaining the upper hand over both Rosendo and this figure, keeping control on your terms.
- Step down and confront the figure: Reject manipulation—his, Rosendo’s, the island’s. Take control your way.
Rosendo
You ignore the voices.
Muffled, warped, seeping through concrete like water through cracked stone. Too many voices. Not quite shouts, not quite whispers. They layer over each other, threading together in a way that makes no sense. Are they speaking? Chanting? Laughing? You don’t know. You don’t care. They aren’t your problem.
Survival is the only goal.
And to survive, you have to understand.
The emergency lights flicker. Dim. Faded. There’s power here. Not a dead building. That means something—either a generator, or something deeper, something still functioning.
You scan the room, letting your eyes adjust. Sterile. Small. Old. The air is stale, carrying the faint bite of dust and electricity. Desks line the walls, covered in monitors—dead ones—yellowed keyboards, stacks of papers long since abandoned. The whole room is quiet, but it doesn’t feel empty.
Your gaze drifts across the maps pinned to the concrete. Hand-drawn. Faded. The details are familiar—the curving coastline, the broken ship, the jungle stretching too far in every direction. Symbols are scrawled across the map, careful but frantic, as though the person drawing it needed to remember something before it was too late.
A tree. A spiral. A ship with a question mark. A lighthouse. A waterfall. A lightning bolt.
And where you stand now—a skull, scribbled over and over, ink digging deep into the paper.
Your fingers hover over it. Your chest tightens, the old sensation of being watched creeping into your ribs, but you shake it off. You’ve come too far to get distracted now.
Your hands move fast, rifling through the documents, looking for something that makes sense. A list of plants and animals. Most of them are crossed out. Erased. You don’t know if that means they’re extinct, or if something else wiped them away.
Then—the diagram.
A dog-like creature, split open like a biology class cadaver. Its organs are labeled, but the handwriting isn’t clinical—it’s erratic, questioning, scrawled in frustration.
“But where is the blood?”
“Human bones????”
Your pulse beats in your throat. You flick through more pages, breath tight, stomach twisting, and then your fingers land on something heavier.
A binder.
EXPERIMENTS.
The cover is torn. Half the pages have been ripped out. You open it, eyes scanning for meaning, for something that makes sense, but the words are worse than the diagrams.
Sap. Control. Manipulation. Test subjects.
You snap the binder shut.
You already know what you have to do.
The stairwell is narrow, winding. You grip the railing, muscles tense. The hum grows louder. At first, it’s just the scrape of your boots against the cement, but then—blue light. Faint at first, then stronger, flickering through the darkness.
You step forward.
You don’t want to be here.
It’s too clean. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that doesn’t feel like absence, but waiting.
The blue lights overhead flicker. The room is larger than you expected, stretching further than the bunker above. Tables. Desks. Surgical tools. The kind of equipment that suggests experiments weren’t just performed here. They were perfected.
And against the far wall—tubes.
Rows of glass cylinders, stretching from floor to ceiling, filled with liquid. Some red. Some purple. Some deep, dark blue. The light shifts as you step closer, and you realize—
Something is inside them.
To your right, a glow. A computer monitor. The only screen in the entire bunker that’s still on.
And in the center of the room—
A table.
Something is on it.
A sheet covers the form, draped too perfectly, too smooth. It rests in a way that feels intentional. Precise.
There is no exit. No door beyond this room.
Just the tubes. The computer. The thing on the table.
Every choice carries a risk. Every choice leads to knowledge that can’t be unlearned.
You breathe in. The hum of the lights vibrates in your skull.
Rosendo’s Options
- Examine the glass tubes: Get a closer look at what’s inside and what they were preserving. Are these failed experiments? Living creatures? What are they?
- Access the computer: Logs, data, research. If something’s still active, maybe you can learn what happened here—maybe even find a way out.
- Uncover whatever is on the table: The way the sheet drapes too perfectly, too neatly… it looks human. Is this the result of the experiments? A body? Something worse?
Part 12: The Unmaking of a Name
Tyfanna
The moment you step forward, the island takes hold. You feel no pain, no fear—only inevitability. You barely notice that Paul ran away. A significant part of the little bit of Tyfanna left inside had hoped the shadowy abomination in front of you would chase him.
It wraps around you instead, coiling, waiting.
The moment stretches, each breath drawn from air that no longer belongs to you. You are part of something else now. And then—the world shifts. The sun’s sickly glow disappears, swallowed by a different kind of darkness. Your feet are no longer on sand. You are somewhere else. A vision.
You see a man in a cave of shining blue crystal.
His body is kneeling, but his mind is soaring, expanding. His hands tremble, reaching toward the thing that towers over him—not the island, not the jungle, but something, someone, vast and unseen.
The power seeps into him, remaking him piece by piece, his shadow stretching, twisting into something longer, something that is no longer his own. His breath is ragged, eyes glassy, but his expression is clear.
He wanted this.
He chose it.
The vision shifts—the man standing taller now, his form steadier, his hand clenched into a fist as the darkness ripples inside him.
And then it’s gone.
You exhale, shuddering, blinking against the light as the sun returns, the waves lapping at the shore like they never stopped.
The figure releases you, pulling back, unraveling like mist.
But you are not the same.
Your fingers burn—you look down. The compass is no longer something you hold. It is part of you now, seared into your palm, its needle locked in place, pointing toward something unseen.
A whisper—not in your ears, but inside you.
“You have been given one last chance.”
The voice is not cruel. Not kind. It simply is.
“Go to the lighthouse.”
The compass pulses, the sensation spreading up your arm, deeper, threading into your ribs.
“You will know what to do when you get there.”
You close your fist, feeling the weight of the command settle inside you. The whispers are no longer something outside of you. They are yours now. Paul is long gone by now. He may not get too far – it looks like the shadowy abomination followed him after all.But you are still here, and you are something more than before. You turn toward the jungle, toward the lighthouse, wondering to yourself whether a change of plan was in order.
Tyfanna’s Options
- Follow the Compass to the Lighthouse: The island has spoken. The power inside you is real, and if you want to understand it, you must follow where it leads.
- Fight Against the Power, Try to Remove the Compass: The island has claimed too much already. If you resist now, will you be free? Or will it break you?
Paul
You are running.
Your feet hit the ground in uneven, desperate strides, breath coming in sharp gasps as the jungle blurs around you. But the island doesn’t care. It twists beneath you, shifts the paths, drags you back. The air is thick, pressing into your lungs, every inhale shallower than the last. You can’t breathe right. The weight in your chest isn’t exhaustion—it’s inevitability.
The whispers are gone.
Not silent—gone.
It should be a relief, but instead, it feels worse. Like a thread has snapped inside you, leaving nothing in its place. You don’t know how far you’ve run, or if you’ve moved at all. The jungle is suffocating, the trees stretching too high, the spaces between them impossibly narrow. The island is folding in on itself.
And then, the world stops.
The air stills. The ground stills. Even your own heartbeat stills.
It is here.
You don’t see it at first—just a ripple in the air, a disturbance where there should be nothing. And then, it begins to unfold.
From the shadows, from the very fabric of the island itself, the figure rises.
It stretches, its form unraveling like something being pulled from the depths of existence, liquid and smoke, lightning and hunger. The light touches everything else—the trees, the ground, your shaking hands—but not it. The dawn should illuminate it, but the rising sun’s orange glow is swallowed before it can land, bent and broken befoe it reaches its surface.
Its face—if you can even call it that—isn’t a face at all. It is motion, a storm, a vortex of shifting void and flickering light, an unending, twisting thing that will never stop moving. There is no stillness in it, no form you can focus on, only a hole where something should be.
Your body betrays you.
Your knees buckle. You fall forward, hands sinking into the damp earth, but there is no impact—the ground no longer feels real. You try to pull in a breath, but there is no air. There is no sound.
Only it.
And then, it speaks.
Not with words. With presence.
It reaches toward you—or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe you are the one moving, drawn into the space where it waits. The space that shouldn’t exist.
Your vision warps, your mind distorting around something too vast, too unknowable. It doesn’t pull you in. It erases the space between.
You are breaking apart.
Your skin peels into shadow, your thoughts fold inward, your memories are eaten at the edges, unraveling, fraying, vanishing.
You do not scream. There is no voice left to scream with.
The moment stretches—seconds, minutes, eternity—none of it means anything anymore.
You are inside it now.
And then—you are nothing.
No sound. No breath. No name.
Just the twisting void where something used to be.
And the sun continues to rise.
Part 13: The Weight of a Key
Graham
You know how stupid this is.
You ran from Tyfanna and Paul, from the twisted weight of their voices luring you toward this place, and now you’re here—exactly where they wanted you to go. Every step feels like a betrayal of your own instincts, yet you have no choice but to keep moving.
And yet, you still step forward.
The Lighthouse hums faintly, a vibration in the air that you can’t hear but feel deep in your bones. This place was never abandoned. The surface isn’t worn-down brick or crumbling stone—it’s smooth.
Like porcelain.
Too smooth.
Built to last, or built for something else. As you stand before it, your heart pounds with a mixture of dread and reluctant fascination, knowing that every decision has led you to this moment.
The light at the top pulses bright blue. It doesn’t flicker like an old bulb struggling for power. It beats, steady, deliberate—a pulse, not a beacon. You grip the silver key tighter. It feels heavier than before. Like it knows. In that weight, you sense a secret burden of destiny and regret, a reminder of the choices you made in desperation.
Sliding it into the pristine lock, you don’t really expect it to work, but the mechanism turns smoothly, the door unlatching without a sound—like it’s been waiting. A shiver runs down your spine as you realize that even the door seems to understand your inner turmoil.
You don’t step inside.
Not yet.
Fear and uncertainty grip you, mixing with a desperate hope that you might still choose differently.
A sound behind you.
You turn, muscles tensed. For a second, you think it’s Tyfanna, but no—the stance is different. Not hostile.
Not yet anyway.
You never know.
In that brief moment, your mind races with the possibility of salvation or further damnation. A woman stands at the clearing’s edge, watching you as carefully as you watch her. Neither of you speaks. The silence between you is heavy with unspoken questions and a shared sense of being adrift in a fate not of your choosing.
Then, she moves.
Mayoli
You watch him before deciding what to do.
He isn’t reckless. He isn’t charging inside like an idiot chasing his own demise. He hesitates. He considers. That’s enough to make you reconsider, too. Because you are sick of feeling like prey. The island has toyed with you long enough. You refuse to be another rat lost in its maze, scurrying toward the next nightmare. No more.
So, you step forward.
You do not slink from the shadows. You do not creep like some afraid thing. You move with purpose—a test, a warning. The man turns to you immediately.
He isn’t afraid.
Not exactly.
He studies you the same way you study him, like two wolves meeting for the first time, assessing if a fight is worth the cost. You let the silence settle, let him make the first move. But your eyes flick to the Lighthouse. It isn’t a beacon. It’s a wound, cut into the island’s flesh, left to fester. And the man?
He just unlocked it.
You should be questioning everything right now. You should be backing away. But you’re done waiting for answers to come to you. The island has thrown too much at you, bent reality too many times. If you only reacted, only survived, you’d never get ahead of it. At this point, you need to trust your intuition.
The lighthouse feels like it’s here for a reason.
Your gaze drops to the man’s hand. The key trembles. Not from fear. Something else. Finally, you break the silence.
“I don’t really trust that we’ll like what we find in there.”
A short, humourless laugh. “That makes two of us.”
That’s enough.
You aren’t friends.
But you aren’t enemies either.
Not yet anyway.
You both look inside, hesitating The Lighthouse door stands open but neither of you steps forward.
Something shifts in the dark—not a figure, but the light itself, bending in ways that shouldn’t be possible. It’s like watching the reflection of fire on water, except there’s no flame, no movement. Just a pulse. Alive. Expectant.
You exchange a glance. You both feel it.
The man, Graham it turns out, exhales sharply. You eye the stairs inside, leading both up and down. Graham isn’t wrong to hesitate, told you why. Neither of you trusts this place. But hesitation is a different kind of risk.
You cross your arms, thinking out loud.
“If you ran here knowing it could be a trap, you must’ve thought something else was worse.”
Graham nods.
“Yeah”
Graham & Mayoli’s Options
- Climb the stairs inside the lighthouse: The flickering light above beats like a pulse, patient, waiting. Maybe the vantage point will give you answers. Maybe it will only show you how trapped you truly are.
- Descend into the basement: There’s something down there. You can feel it—a low, steady hum vibrating through the floor. Maybe it’s power. Maybe it’s something else entirely.
- Stay outside and explore the lighthouse perimeter: Just because this place is the obvious choice doesn’t mean it’s the right one. The island hides things in the corners of reality. If there’s another way in—or a reason not to go inside—you need to find it now.
Part 14: More Than You Were Before
(Andrea)
Andrea
The figure steps forward. Too fluid. Too confident. Too human to be human.
Yet it wears Kate’s face—same height, same frame, same tangled mess of hair. But you know better. The expression is wrong, the smile too easy, like someone wearing a mask that doesn’t quite fit. And when you met Kate, she definitely wasn’t smiling.
it speaks, the voice isn’t Kate’s. It’s deeper, layered, as if multiple voices are slipping over each other like oil on water.
“You really thought you got away from him?”
Your body tenses, every nerve on edge. The way it says the words—it’s not talking about Kate. It’s talking about you. But who is ‘he’? The island? Something worse? Just a man?
The morning light filters through the treetops, streaking orange across the jungle. The air is thick with humidity, and the smell of wet earth clings to your skin. Another step forward, slow and deliberate, and then—
The scream comes.
A shriek, raw and piercing, ripping through the silence like a blade. Kate’s scream. Coming from the figure. The exact same one you heard before. But too long. Too loud. It drills into your skull, vibrating in your teeth, setting something primal loose in your chest.
And then, just as suddenly, it collapses into laughter.
The figure tilts its head, watching you. “Kate couldn’t cut it,” it muses, voice dripping with amusement. “But you… you have potential. You don’t need to die. If you don’t want to.”
You swallow the bile creeping up your throat. Your eyes dart between the figure and the pool below. It’s a long drop. Forty feet, maybe more. The golden glow below shifts like something alive, pulsing softly against the darkened water.
Behind you, Jordan hasn’t moved.
He isn’t looking at the figure. He isn’t reacting. He’s staring at the ground, shrinking into himself, as if making himself small enough will somehow make the danger pass him by.
You grit your teeth. You won’t be like him. You won’t just stand here and wait to be swallowed.
The creature sniffs the air, nostrils flaring slightly. It hesitates. That’s all you need.
You take a deep breath—
And you jump.
The air rushes past you, tearing at your clothes, whipping against your skin. The jungle blurs, orange streaks and twisting shadows vanishing into a golden abyss below. Your stomach lurches, your breath catches—
And then you hit the water.
No splash. No sound.
Just warmth.
The golden light wraps around you, sinking into your skin, flowing into your veins like liquid fire. You should be freezing. The waterfall spray had been cold, sharp, but here—you feel nothing but heat. Not just heat—strength.
For the first time since waking up on the beach, you feel whole. More than whole.
Something inside you has changed.
You break the surface, gasping, blinking against the morning light. The golden water clings to you like a second skin, droplets shimmering as they slide from your arms.
You look up.
You can’t see the figure.
You can’t see Jordan.
But someone else is there.
A man stands at the cliff’s edge, watching you. At first, you think he’s glowing, but no—not light. Movement.
Electricity.
Tiny tendrils of blue static flicker along his arms, creeping up his neck, weaving through his hair like the charge before a storm. Your stomach tightens.
You’ve seen that blue before. The lightning inside the storm-figure’s face.
The unnatural glow of the moon. Your fingers tighten in the water. Something waits beneath you. You can feel it.
You breathe in, treading water, pulse steady, muscles weightless. You have never felt stronger. Not just physically—mentally.
The island had taken. It had tested.
But now?
Now, it had given.
You look up. The static-charged man watches you, unmoving, unreadable. Maybe he has answers. Maybe he knows where Jordan went, what happened to the figure.
Or…
You look down. The glow swirls beneath you, shifting, alive. Something calls to you, deep and ancient, pulling at the marrow in your bones.
Andrea’s Options
- Get out and confront the static-charged man: Who is he? What does he want? Maybe Jordan is still up there. Maybe the creature is.
- Dive deeper: There’s something glowing beneath her. Something alive. Something waiting.
Part 15: The Monster You Become
Jordan
You don’t move.
The jungle is thick with the first light of dawn, dark orange bleeding into the sky, but all you see is her.
Or, no—it.
The dark figure steps forward, the movement sharp, yet wrong, like something that just learned how to walk, and wants the world to know it. It tilts its head, considering Andrea, then lets out a long, terrible scream.
Your teeth clench at the sound. It drills into your ears, into your bones, and when it finally cuts off, the jungle holds its breath.
“She couldn’t cut it,” the thing says, voice too deep, too calm. Mocking. “But you? You have potential. You don’t have to die, you know.”
Andrea isn’t answering. She’s staring at the pool, weight shifting, making a choice.
Is it talking to you?
You should do something.
But you don’t.
You shrink into yourself, trying to be a smaller, quieter Jordan. If the thing isn’t talking to you, maybe it won’t see you at all.
And then Andrea jumps.
No splash. No sound. Just gone.
The figure watches her descend, tilting its head like a curious bird, then turns its gaze on you, with that terrible smile. Your chest tightens.
Its stare is worse than the scream.
And then—someone else arrives.
A figure steps from the jungle like he’s always belonged there, and the thing recoils. No hesitation, no threats—just pure, mindless fear.
And then it runs.
The danger isn’t gone. It’s just changed shape.
Chris
The island chose you.
That’s what the voice had said, curled around your thoughts like smoke through a keyhole. The power had burned through your veins, turning your mind into something sharp, hungry, limitless.
So why did you choose the waterfall?
Because something was happening here. Something important. You could feel it.
And you wanted to see it first.
As you step out of the trees, the first thing you notice is the Hollow.
It doesn’t belong to you. Not yet.
But it recognizes you.
For the first time since you touched the Crystal, you see something that looks like it fears you. The Hollow takes one look at you, then flees without a word.
Coward.
You watch it disappear, but it doesn’t matter. It’s not the prize.
Your gaze shifts, and there he is.
The prize.
Cowering. Small.
You step forward. Something inside you crackles. Not just in your mind—under your skin. Like the storm from before, but this time, it’s yours to command.
You know what you have to do.
The island gave you a job now.
The only way to win is to be the last one standing.
Jordan
You’re frozen.
You tell yourself to move, to run, to fight, to do anything, but it’s too late.
He sees you.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move fast. He just steps forward, slow and deliberate, like he’s enjoying this.
He’s more dangerous than the figure.
The figure ran from him. That terrible thing that wasn’t human? It ran.
You inch back. Maybe he won’t come closer. Maybe—
No.
His head tilts, eyes locking on you, unblinking.
He’s waiting.
Waiting for you to do something.
You think fast.
Or you try to. There’s a lot to consider.
Maybe there’s a regular human with a heart in there, somewhere, buried beneath layers of anger and the same confusion that Jordan feels—though who are you kidding? It’s stupid; it’s a losing battle right from the start, and deep down, you know that. You won’t win against the force of his twisted will, yet somehow the thought of going down swinging feels more palatable than allowing him to take you apart like some kind of experiment, a mere subject in his twisted game.
Does it even matter anymore? You can still turn, but as you feel the adrenaline surge and sprint into the trees, you can’t shake the doubt creeping in. The dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves might offer fleeting comfort, but will it save you? You don’t know if you’ll get far, if the cover will be enough, if the noise of your heart pounding in your chest will drown out the pursuit behind you, but one thing’s for certain—staying in one place is not a smart move, even if it might feel easier.
Or…
You could Jump. Andrea made it. Maybe you still can.
The options hammer through your mind.
He won’t wait much longer.
Chris
You hold Jordan’s fate in your hands. You don’t know how you know his name, but you can feel it.
The weight of it.
And you know what the island wants you to do.
Take him.
A part of you likes that. You can end this right now. It wouldn’t be hard, just one step forward, one flick of power, and he’s gone. Taken. He’d go where he’s supposed to go. Where you are supposed to send him. But there may be another way. You don’t have to destroy him.
You could give him some of your power instead.
You don’t know how you know this either. But you do. You could reach out, pull him in, and he’d have no choice but to follow. He’d understand. Jordan would be on your side.
Or you could walk away.
Spare him, ignore the power itching beneath your skin – and pay the price. Because if you hesitate, if you let even one of them slip away, you’d be next.
This island is a battleground.
And you are the monster now.
Chris’ Options
- Kill Jordan Immediately: One step forward. One flick of power. It would be easy—so easy. You don’t have to chase him. You don’t have to let him run. Just take what’s yours.
- Corrupt Jordan: You don’t know how, but you know you can. A gift. A command. A claim. He’ll join you whether he wants to or not.
- Spare Jordan: Turn away. Leave him be. Show restraint. Show weakness. And face whatever punishment the island has waiting for you.
Jordan’s Options
- Reason with him: If there’s anything left of the person he used to be, you have to reach him now. You don’t know what happened to him, but if you can make him see that he’s still human—still one of you—maybe he won’t do whatever it is he’s thinking about.
- Fight: You’ve been through too much to just let this happen. If he’s going to take you down, he’s going to have to work for it. Maybe you can land a hit. Maybe you can break free. Maybe you can make him hurt.
- Run: He’s faster. He’s stronger. But maybe—maybe—you can slip away before he makes his move. If you get into the jungle, you might have a chance.
- Jump: Andrea made it into the pool. You might be able to as well. But it’s a long drop, and you don’t know what’s waiting below.
Part 16: You Fall Together
Peter
You are sliding. Fast.
The ground beneath you is a shifting mass of bone and sand, loose and endless, pulling you toward the thing that should not exist. The Engine.
It roars in the pit ahead, its glow pulsing in time with your heartbeat, a deep, unnatural blue that makes your skin crawl. The hum of it isn’t just in your ears—it’s in your chest, in your skull, vibrating through your bones. The closer you get, the stronger it feels, a force that isn’t just gravity, but something deeper. Something worse.
You should never have come down here.
You should have shut it off alone.
You shouldn’t have called for Chelsea.
The regret coils tight in your stomach as you flail for something—anything—to stop your descent. Your heels dig into the slope, but the sand is treacherous, slick with centuries of decay. Skulls roll beneath you, empty sockets staring, accusing, as though they know what’s coming.
Then—there! A jagged outcrop of stone, jutting from the slope like salvation. You twist your body, ignoring the sharp jolt in your ribs, and fling your arm out. Your fingers catch the edge, and for a moment, you think it’s too late—but then you grip.
The force of it nearly wrenches your shoulder from its socket, but you hold on. Your body swings, legs kicking wildly before you find purchase, your foot pressing against something solid. You stop.
Air rushes from your lungs in a sharp, ragged gasp. Your heart slams against your ribs. Your fingers burn. But you’re alive.
The Engine churns below, furious, but for now, you’ve beaten it.
A bitter laugh bubbles up in your throat. You made it. You did it. You survived.
Then something cold and desperate wraps around your wrist.
Chelsea
The voices are screaming.
You don’t know where you end and they begin. Their thoughts are your thoughts. Their will is your will. And yet, you are still here.
You tumble down the slope, bone and sand shifting around you, the blue glow of the Engine growing stronger, swallowing everything else. The bones whisper against your skin, rattling against one another, skittering like insects as they shift toward the pit. It’s like they want to be devoured.
Peter is ahead of you. Safe.
No. Not safe. You can still reach him.
The voices twist inside your head, each one a different whisper, a different demand.
Stop him. Save him. Kill him. Help him. Hurt him. Protect him. Push him.
They blur together, an endless, breathless chant, pressing against the inside of your skull until you can’t tell which thoughts are yours. Which ones have ever been yours.
You try to fight it. You try.
You remember the moments before. The choice. The pull. The blue glow. The island itself, wrapping around you like an embrace, like a noose.
Peter called for you, and you came.
And now—now you don’t know if you are here to help him or destroy him.
Your breath comes in ragged gasps as your fingers stretch forward. You don’t know why. You don’t know if it’s you doing it.
Your hand catches his wrist.
Peter jerks, eyes wide, face twisting into something that might be relief—until you pull.
For the first time, the voices stop.
For one perfect, excruciating second, the only sound is Peter’s sharp, broken gasp as his grip on the ledge fails.
Then—
You fall together.
The bones beneath you give way, a river of skulls tumbling downward, carrying you both toward the mouth of the Engine.
Peter is screaming. Or maybe you are. Or maybe you are both.
The last thing you see before the light takes you completely is Peter’s face, eyes wide in horror, his mouth forming your name.
Then—
Nothing.
The churning grows to a roar. The blue light consumes everything.
And as the sun rose over the island on the second day, the total number of unfortunate souls trapped in this most dangerous game was reduced by two.
When the Island Calls Your Name
The waves still crash, the wind still sighs,
Yet two have vanished from the skies.
Not by blade, nor by their hand,
But by forces none can withstand.
One stood firm, refused to run,
Clung to hope till hope was none.
The ocean whispered, soft and sweet,
And pulled them down beneath its feet.
The other fled, with breath so thin,
But this place does not let you win.
The jungle twisted, paths turned wrong,
And what was chasing all along?
Not claws, nor teeth, nor something wild—
The island does not hunt its child.
It waits, it bends, it shifts its shape,
And those who falter have no escape.
One became a hollow shade,
A name erased, a choice unmade.
The other’s cries, now lost in air,
Dissolved into the island’s stare.
So heed this warning, take your care,
No kindness lingers anywhere.
Survive, betray, or play the pawn,
For once you’re lost—you’re never gone.
– excerpt from The Infinite Corridor,
author unknown, date unknown
Thus ends the stories of Lauren and Paul
One lost to the island, and one that will never leave.
Survivor Hamilton 