Chapter 9: Domination

Previously on SURVIVE: The Island…

The island tightens its grip. Some are lost forever. Some are slipping away. And some are still fighting—though they don’t know if they should.

Lauren is gone. The whispers took everything, eroded her piece by piece until she became something else. There is no more Lauren. Only the Hollow. The island’s cruel law—someone consumes, someone is consumed—has claimed her, and Jordanna barely escapes her grasp. But something changed in her too. The pulse in her ankle. The whispers in her head. The feeling of being stronger. Nothing comes without a price.

Andrew and Cowin drift in the open sea, surrounded by sharks that don’t attack, don’t kill—only watch. A test. A challenge. A choice.

Mayo remembers. For the first time since the voices took hold, she remembers Claudia. Her sister. And for the first time, the whispers hesitate.

Jim runs. But escape only leads him into new dangers. A meeting. A crossroads. An invitation he isn’t sure he should accept.

Travis doesn’t resist anymore. He feels the change in his body, the electric pull of his new pack. He is becoming something else. A hunter.

Tyfanna walks toward the lighthouse, the compass fused to her palm, her purpose clear: Find Graham. Make him touch the crystal. But then she sees Mayoli. And Mayoli looks untouched. Kind. Free. And suddenly, Tyfanna hesitates.

Graham and Mayoli face the lighthouse, knowing it isn’t what it seems. Graham chooses to enter. Mayoli stays outside. One will see what’s inside. The other will search for another way in.

Peter and Chelsea fall.

Into the Engine. Into the unknown. Into something worse than death.

And in the darkness, the island watches. It is still not done.

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

Choice Submission Form

Part 1: Definitely Not A Trap

(Graham, Mayoli & Tyfanna)

Graham
You don’t want to go into the lighthouse alone.

You tell yourself it’s because it’s safer if Mayoli comes with you, but let’s be honest—it’s not. Safety is an illusion, and this island has already made that painfully clear. What you really don’t want is to be alone with whatever waits inside.

“We should stick together,” you say, the words tasting like trust, like the smallest bit of hope that maybe, just maybe, you’re not in this alone.

Mayoli doesn’t even hesitate. “I’m staying out here.”

You look at the lighthouse door. You look at her. You are 0 for 1 on convincing people to follow you into ominous structures.

“Well,” you mutter, stepping inside, “if something horrible happens to you, at least I’ll hear the screaming.”

Silver linings.

The door swings shut behind you with a soft click.

Immediately, you hate this place.

There is no dust. No dust. You’ve been on this island for days, and it’s been trying to kill you since sunrise on Day One, so explain to yourself why this fancy-ass marble palace of a lighthouse looks like it was cleaned by the gods themselves.

No crates. No supplies. No lonely can of expired beans left behind by some poor soul who thought they could wait out the apocalypse here.

You exhale through your nose, stepping farther in. The air is… fresh. The kind of clean that makes you think of hotel lobbies and expensive soap—not a single trace of mildew, rot, or decay. It makes your skin crawl.

Your eyes land on the two staircases. Up or down.

You don’t even have to think about it.

You glance down—and instantly regret it.

The stairs descend forever.

Not deep, not really dark, not “wow, that’s unsettling”—forever. The flickering lights stretch downward in a perfect, endless spiral, each step disappearing into the next, into nothing, into something not meant for you. You turn away so fast you nearly trip.

Up it is.

You climb. The smoothness of the handrail unnerves you, because of course it’s smooth. Everything here is untouched, unlived in, uncomfortably perfect. Halfway up, curiosity gets the better of you. You glance over the railing.

The stairs leading down still stretch forever.

It looks wrong. It looks hungry. You move faster. At the top, you brace yourself for some kind of beacon, a normal lighthouse light, something human.

Instead, a massive blue crystal hovers in the center of the chamber, spinning slowly in the morning light.

It is perfect. It is wrong. It hums—not audibly, but somewhere in the bones of your skull. You immediately cover your eyes and peek through your fingers. Because screw this island, and screw whatever this is. You step to the open window. The air is warm, golden, perfect.

Below, the world is stunning. The ocean, endless and calm. The mountains, untouched. If you ignore the unrelenting horror, this might actually be a five-star vacation spot. Looking down you see Mayoli. She’s still outside, poking around like a clueless detective. And then—someone else steps into view.

Tyfanna.

She moves like she knows how this ends. No hesitation. No Paul.

The hair on your arms rises. Something in her walk is wrong.

Your breath catches. The crystal hums behind you. The staircase below waits.

You need to decide.

Now.

Graham’s Options

Call Out to Mayoli: She’s too far to hear clearly, but shouting might catch her attention. Tyfanna approaches with purpose, and you’re not sure if it means help or harm. This might be Mayoli’s only chance for a warning.
Interact with the Crystal: Whatever this thing is, it’s not just decoration. It hums with something ancient, something expectant. Touching it might give you answers—or change you into something unrecognizable. But if it has power, could it be used? Could it help?
Run Down to Mayoli: She’s alone, and Tyfanna isn’t stopping. If something is wrong, she can’t fight back alone. But running means leaving the crystal behind—whatever the lighthouse hides untouched. What if it’s already too late?
Descend Into the Base: The stairs shouldn’t go down that far. Nothing should go down that far. But what if the real secret of the lighthouse isn’t up here—it’s below? If there are answers, they might be in the depths. But what if it’s not a place people are meant to return from?

Mayoli
Your instincts are the only thing that haven’t failed you yet.

Opening the front door with a key was too easy. No tricks, no rusted lock, no ominous creak as the threshold groaned open like the jaws of something ancient. Just a simple turn, an open door, and Graham looking at you like he really wanted you to stay.

That set off alarm bells.

You haven’t needed to trust anyone yet, and you’re not about to start now. So despite the itch of curiosity about what waits in the basement, you stay outside, letting the warm morning sun settle on your skin like a hand pressing down, holding you in place.

It’s a good place to breathe. The ocean is bright and too blue, the breeze cool and too clean. No whispers, no shifting walls, no impossible choices yet. Still, your skin itches.

There is something wrong with the lighthouse.

Not in a screaming, horror-movie way. In a way that doesn’t add up The white tower isn’t built on the rocky outcrop—it looks like it was always here. No platform, no foundation. Just smooth, curved walls rising directly from the stone, as if the island had grown around it. Or maybe it grew around the island. Which is impossible. Right?

A breath. A decision.

You’re going to play it safe this time. Look first. So you take a slow walk around the lighthouse, hands in your pockets, gaze drifting. At first glance, there’s nothing to see. No cracks, no markings, no hidden doors. Just smooth white walls curving upward into the sky, uninterrupted.

You glance up occasionally, half-expecting to see Graham peering down from a window. He doesn’t appear. The sky remains beautiful and empty.

So you stop looking everywhere at once, and focus.

You trail your fingers along the lighthouse’s base, feeling for seams, cracks—anything.

Nothing.

You drop to your knees, pressing a palm against the ground where the lighthouse meets rock. The transition is too smooth, too unnatural. The rocks are ancient, jagged and wind-worn. The lighthouse is older. You exhale slowly. Stand. Walk towards the edge.

The cliff drops into the waves below, seafoam curling against dark stone. And then—a gap. A hole in the cliffside.

A cave.

You swallow. Not another cave. The last one tried to break you. The last one nearly did. Still, it’s an option.

Though you may have had your fill of climbing. And caves.

You take a step closer. Decide to think about it. And then—a foot scrapes against stone. You turn casually, expecting Graham. Halfway through forming the words, “I think I found something,” you realize it isn’t him.

It’s a woman.

A woman you have never seen before. She doesn’t stumble, doesn’t hesitate. She moves like someone who already knows what happens next. She looks unwell.

Too still. Too intentional.

A compass in her hand.

No.

Not in her hand.

A compass IN HER HAND.

The skin has grown over it, veins creeping toward the edges of the brass casing like ivy up a wall.

She looks at you. Considering.

Mayoli’s Options

Approach the woman calmly: You don’t know if she’s a threat in any way. Therefore, slow steps, open posture, and no sudden movements are key to finding out what her intentions might be.
Approach the woman aggressively: You’re tired of waiting. If this is going to get ugly, better to control when it starts. Catch her off guard, test her reaction. She’s in your way, and you’re not in the mood to be polite.
Try to get past her into the lighthouse: She’s in the way. The door is right there. You’d rather take your chances inside than on open ground. Move fast to slip past her before she reacts. It’s a gamble, but standing still feels worse.
Climb down the rocky cliff to the cave: There’s always another way. If the lighthouse or she seems like a trap, don’t play along. The cave isn’t ideal, but waiting isn’t better. Move before she decides for you.

Tyfanna
The compass pulls. You follow.

The lighthouse stands ahead, stark against the sky, its smooth white walls catching the golden light of morning. The path toward it is clear, as though nothing else exists anymore. The voices inside you—the ones that have burrowed into your mind, into your bones—are clearer than ever.

Go to the lighthouse.
Find Graham.
Make him touch the crystal.

The instructions have weight. They press against your ribs, sink into your skin like hooks pulling you forward. It isn’t a command you hear. It’s a truth you’ve already accepted. You don’t fight it. Not like before. You remember what happens when you fight. Paul fought.

Now Paul is gone.

You didn’t see it happen. You didn’t have to. Something in the air shifted, a presence erased. There is no corpse. No blood. Just the knowledge that he is no longer anywhere. The thought should crush you. But it doesn’t.

Because you’re still here. And the island has chosen to keep you.

The compass twitches in your palm, the brass face glinting in the light. No, not your palm. Not anymore. It is part of you now, fused into your skin, veins threading toward its edges like roots spreading through soil.

It should feel unnatural.

It should feel wrong.

But you can’t remember what “wrong” feels like anymore. The needle wobbles once, steadies. It points toward Graham, waiting at the top of the lighthouse. You know what happens next.

And then—you see her.

She isn’t running. She isn’t hiding. She isn’t hunched in fear or bracing for something awful. She is searching.

She moves around the lighthouse, trailing her hands along its surface, stepping back to take it in, tilting her head like she’s trying to understand something no one else has ever stopped to consider. You stop walking. You don’t mean to. For the first time since you got your second chance, you hesitate.

She looks kind.

She looks almost content.

Like the island hasn’t touched her yet.

Like she has never had to clench her teeth against the voices in her skull. Never had to bite the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood just to remind herself she was still real.

Never had to wonder whether the choices she made belonged to her at all.

She has never been broken.

And the realization shatters something inside you.

The emotions come all at once—anger, grief, envy, a strange and awful tenderness. Like your body has remembered how to feel too much at once after feeling nothing for too long.

She is like you, before it all changed.

She has everything you lost.

A breath trembles in your lungs, and for one agonizing second, you feel human again.

The voices don’t like that.

Go to the lighthouse.

Your pulse skips. The compass in your palm burns. The lighthouse waits.

Graham waits.

You were supposed to keep walking. To go inside. To find him. To finish what you were sent to do.

But you’re still standing here.

Still looking at her.

Still feeling.

Tyfanna’s Options

Approach the woman, try to hold back the voices: The voices tell you to move past her. She isn’t important. Yet, something about her presence tugs at your memories. If you get close—if you hear her voice, see her eyes—you might remember how to stop.
Ignore her and move towards Graham: The lighthouse is waiting. Graham is waiting. The island has decided. Don’t look at her; she is a distraction. Keep walking, following the pull of the compass and the voices in your skull. Don’t stop. Don’t feel.
Go into the lighthouse but go down instead of up. Rebel one last time: The island is watching. It never said which way to go. The stairs down stretch deep. Your orders feel like a leash, but if you move down—if you decide for yourself—maybe you’re not fully lost yet. Maybe there’s still something of you left.

Part 2: What Waits Below

(Travis)

You walk among them now. Their blackened forms move in sync, shifting like shadows through the tunnels. They do not question your place. You belong here. And yet—something inside you tightens.

Not because you doubt. That was never in question. Ever since the bite, your path was set. Fighting would have been pointless. But what will you become?

Already, your body feels different. Stronger. Faster. Every step is lighter, your movements sharper, more fluid. But your mind—your mind is something else entirely. Thoughts come slower, simpler. The noise of the world fades, leaving only what matters. Eat the blue. Protect the pack. Serve the Master. The rest—the doubts, the questions, the human things—slip away like water through your fingers.

Ahead, the pack leader glances back, its blue-lit eyes reflecting something ancient. A low, rumbling growl—approval. They have all been where you are. They lead you deeper.

The tunnels pulse with veins of blue, the glow thickening as you descend. The air grows dense, electric. Spores drift in slow spirals, sticking to your skin. You could stop. Press your hands to the walls. Let the blue sink in. Lick it from the stone and be happy. The thought lingers. Then it fades.

Not yet.

The glow ahead intensifies.

Not long now.

And then, the tunnels end. The morning light stings your eyes. You blink, disoriented. It was night when you entered.

The tunnel spills onto a ledge. Below, a crater yawns open, a vast wound in the earth. The blue veins spread outward from its core, creeping through the jungle, corrupting everything they touch. And at the very bottom, a hole. Not as wide as the crater itself, but deep—endlessly deep.

From its depths pours a blue glow, brighter than the sun, wrong and waiting. The pack shifts, eager, restless. Some pace. Some whisper words too broken to understand. The leader nudges you forward. Your hand brushes its fur—rotted, crusted, but alive.

It is cold. Not the cold of the air. Not the cold of the sea.

A deep cold. A wrong cold.

And something in you knows.

This is it.

There is no turning back.

You step forward. Peer into the abyss. The glow moves inside it, writhing, pulsing, alive.

And then—the voice comes.

Not from below.

Not from above.

From both. From neither. From inside your bones.

The pack shivers in pleasure, pressing low to the ground. Some moan softly. Some shake. Some weep.

The Master speaks.

It thanks you.

It thanks you for choosing wisely. For sparing Jim.

Jim still has a role to play.

It asks if you are ready. Ready to become more, to serve, to be rewarded.

You do not need to answer.

Because you already chose.

And the Master knows this.

A force slams into your back. The leader shoves you forward.

You fall.

The blue swallows you whole.

Cold fills your veins, your mind, your bones. You do not scream. You do not fight. The change is seamless.

Your joints crack, limbs bending wrong, twisting into a shape that fits. Your jaw stretches, teeth sharpen, spine curves. Your clothes hang loose, slipping off in tatters as your body molds itself into something new.

And when you crawl from the chasm, it is on all fours.

Your skin is still pink, but beneath, something black writhes. The sun hits your back. It should warm you.

But it doesn’t.

It feels wrong.

You know now.

You do not belong in the light anymore.

The pack erupts in celebration. They yip, spin, press their bodies against you. The leader places a paw on you.

For just a moment, its face flickers—not a beast, but a man, smiling.

And it does not bother you.

Because you are not alone anymore.

The Master has spoken.

The pack leader tells you it is time.

Travis, should we start?

Travis’s Options

Hunt for Jim: He is still resisting. This must change. We all must change.
Rescue the Lost Brother: One of our own is trapped in the laboratory. He must be freed.
Stop the Most Powerful Enemy: The greatest threat must be silenced.

Part 3: You Asked For This

(Jordan, Chris & Andrea)

Jordan
The moment you step forward, you know there’s no turning back.

The island doesn’t reward hesitation. You’ve seen what happens to people who wait, who tread lightly, who cling to the idea that playing it safe means staying alive. Maybe that worked for a while, back when you could still pretend this was a survival game. Back when you thought making smart, measured decisions was the way to win.

But there is no winning. There is only power, and the people who have it.

Chris has it.

And now, you want it too.

You don’t flinch when his hand clamps onto your shoulder, fingers digging in like hooks. The air between you hums, charged with something electric, something primal. Ice cold energy bleeds from his skin to yours, spreading, pulsing, as if something inside him is reaching out, wrapping around you like a second spine, like a set of hands pressing against your ribs.

And then—impact.

A force slams through your body, a shockwave that starts at your chest and rips outward, searing through your veins, coiling around your bones. Your legs buckle—you weren’t ready for this. You thought you were, but this isn’t just energy. This isn’t just strength. It’s something alive, something with weight, something shifting beneath your skin, trying to make room for itself.

Your vision fractures.

Not blurring—splitting.

For a moment, there are two of you. Three. Five. Staggering in different directions, moving out of sync, a hundred versions of you breaking apart and snapping back together like a shattered mirror trying to rebuild itself.

And then come the voices.

Not whispers. Not warnings.

Laughter.

It echoes inside your skull, filling the spaces between your thoughts. It knows you. It sees you.

“You were never meant to follow.”

“You were always meant to break.”

“Let go.”

Your stomach clenches as something shifts inside you, something rearranges. You can feel yourself expanding and shrinking at the same time, your muscles tightening, your skin burning, your breath hitching in your throat as you try to hold on. But the power doesn’t want to be held. It wants to consume. To stretch. To twist.

You squeeze your eyes shut, nails digging into your own arms, into the dirt beneath you, grounding yourself in the sensation. Your body is yours. Your mind is yours.

But for how much longer?

Chris’s grip tightens, steadying you. Maybe to help. Maybe to keep you from pulling away. His static feeds into you, the energy still pouring in, still reshaping. The connection between you isn’t breaking.

You aren’t just receiving power.

You’re linked.

Your head jerks back, breath coming hard, chest rising and falling in short, sharp gasps. Your pulse is different. It’s slower and faster at the same time, adjusting, syncing to something else, to something bigger. The world around you feels too sharp, too bright, too loud. The jungle breathes. The ground trembles.

You force yourself to stand.

Chris watches you, unreadable.

For a second, you wonder if this is what he felt like, back when he first took it in. When he stepped past the threshold and became something more.

And for the first time, you wonder—if you’re already too far past the line to step back.

Chris
This is what power feels like.

It coils inside you, stretching, unfurling, something more than energy, more than fire. It doesn’t just fill you—it threads through your bones, stitches into your nerves, makes you more than you were before.

You watch Jordan stagger, his body rejecting, then accepting. His breath ragged, his muscles tensed against something too big to contain.

You remember that feeling. The first time the island gave you its power, it burned like ice, but you knew better than to resist. That’s the difference between you and him. You embraced it.

Jordan thought he could take it like a tool, something to use and control. He doesn’t understand. Power isn’t taken. It’s given. And now, it’s shaping him, whether he wants it or not.

Your fingers twitch, feeling the weight of his presence, the link forged between you now. It’s not just energy—you can feel him. The pulse of his breath, the way his thoughts stutter and shudder as they try to reshape themselves.

He doesn’t realize it yet, but he belongs to you now.

You exhale, slow, controlled. This isn’t just about Jordan. He is a piece, a necessary piece, but the board is bigger.

You turn, scanning the jungle. Everything feels different. The world is sharper, clearer. The waterfall pulses like a second heartbeat. The trees hum with static, murmuring beneath the wind. You can feel the island breathing beneath your feet.

But then—something changes.

A flicker, like a signal breaking.

The charge between you and Jordan shudders, wavers.

You freeze.

The static in your veins flares, instinctual, like a predator scenting a shift in the wind. The jungle isn’t just watching anymore.

It’s waiting.

Then you feel it.

A pull—not in you, but around you. A weight tipping the balance. A ripple in the current you thought only you controlled.

Then you see her.

Climbing. No—rising.

Her body is slick with water, but she moves with no struggle, no hesitation. Like something is lifting her, guiding her forward.

The moment you lock eyes, the static inside you surges, snapping against your skin.

She isn’t like the others.

The island doesn’t resist her.

It leans toward her.

Your jaw tightens, fingers curling into fists. No.

She is not supposed to be here.

This is your island now.

You take a step forward, power humming beneath your skin, the air sharper, heavier.

She keeps climbing.

You wait.

When she reaches the top, you will show her what happens to people who don’t know their place.

Andrea
The climb should be harder than this.

The first time, it was. You remember how your muscles burned, how your hands ached against the wet stone, how every inch felt like a battle against gravity, against exhaustion, against the doubt that had followed you since you first woke up on this island.

But that was before.

Before you stopped fighting and started listening.

Before you realized the island wasn’t just a place—it was a presence, something vast and ancient, something that had been speaking to you all along.

You just hadn’t known how to hear it.

At first, you played it like a survival game. Rely on yourself. Trust no one. Gather what you need and keep moving. You saw what happened to people who got too comfortable, who got too close to others. You told yourself that caution was the way to win.

But caution had limits.

And when you stood at the edge of the glowing pool—when you felt the weight of everything that had led you there—you finally chose. You let go. You stopped fearing what you didn’t understand. You accepted.

And the island accepted you back.

Now, your hands grip the rock without slipping, your body moves with purpose, and the air feels lighter, charged with something that wants you to reach the top. You are not fighting the island anymore. You are a part of it.

And when you crest the edge of the cliff, you know immediately that this monster is not.

He stands before you, his body humming with something unnatural, something stolen. Blue static dances over his skin, snapping outward like it’s trying to escape. The air around him feels wrong, bent around the charge of his power, the way air distorts around fire.

Then you see Jordan.

He is still standing. But not quite himself.

His breathing is uneven, his fingers twitch, his muscles tense like he’s fighting something inside him. The power Chris gave him is still reshaping him, still deciding what he is.

You meet the monster’s eyes.

He steps forward, slow, confident—like he’s already won.

You don’t let him speak.

The water answers first.

It surges from behind you, rising in liquid arcs, tendrils of mist and motion that coil toward him like they have a will of their own. The roar of the waterfall grows louder, the force of the current bending, shaping itself into a weapon in your hands.

The monster meets it head-on.

Lightning explodes from his fingertips, splitting the air between you. The blue glow intensifies, arcing outward in jagged veins, racing to meet the water. The moment they collide, the mist detonates into steam, a wave of hot vapor rolling outward, shrouding the battlefield in a blinding veil of light and heat.

You press forward.

The current twists and crashes, slamming against his defenses, pressing back against the static, but your opponent does not falter. His lightning forks through the mist, turning the air into a battlefield of electric scars and twisting currents.

The ground trembles beneath your feet, the power between you grinding against each other like tectonic plates before an earthquake.

He snarls, his body radiating blue light, his static surging outward in crackling bursts, trying to pierce through the water, to sever your control, to drown you in his storm.

But the water is not afraid of lightning.

You dig your heels into the rock, feeling the weight of the island at your back, the strength of the current in your veins. The water bends, spiraling into a vortex, turning his own power against him, forcing him back a step.

The monstrous man growls, eyes narrowing, and the next strike is even stronger.

A bolt of energy erupts from his hands, cutting through the mist, shattering the vortex you had formed. The force of it hits your chest like a punch, sending you stumbling back a half-step. The air smells of burned air and raw energy.

You grit your teeth. You will not break first.

He’s not the only one who knows how to push harder.

You raise your hands, and the waterfall itself bends to your will. A wave surges up from behind you, cresting like a tidal force, crashing toward him in a wall of liquid fury.

The monster throws both hands forward, and his static surges outward like an electric pulse, splitting the water apart before it can crush him. The mist ignites again, more steam rising, turning the world into a blinding haze of blue light and roaring current.

And then—Jordan moves.

You feel it before you see it—the way the energy around him shifts, the hesitation breaking, the balance of power waiting on the edge of a knife.

The island is watching.

The world holds its breath.

And Jordan is about to decide which way it falls.

Andrea’s Options

Call upon the Island: Take as much of the island’s full power as you can to crush both the monster and Jordan right here right now.
Save Jordan: Focus on using your power to free Jordan from corruption, hoping he turns against the monster and can help you.
Challenge the monster directly: Face the monster one-on-one in a final duel for control, leaving Jordan to make his own decision.

Jordan’s Options

Fully embrace corruption: Accept power completely and fight alongside Chris.
Reject Chris’s corruption: Resist the corruption and break free, potentially siding with Andrea against him.
Take control for yourself: Try to steal power from both Chris and Andrea, making yourself the dominant force.

Chris’s Options

Overwhelm Andrea: Go all-in, using all of your power to destroy her and take full control.
Manipulate Jordan: Convince Jordan to turn on Andrea and solidify your alliance against your enemies.
Question the Power: Hesitate, realizing something is wrong with the power that you and Jordan wield. Give yourself over to change once again.

Part 4: Sixteen Days

(Jim, Mayo & Claudia)

Jim
You follow Claudia’s lead, her pace steady, confident, like she already knows the way. The jungle is thick with heat, the air clinging to your skin, too heavy, too still. It feels like it’s watching.

Maybe it always was.

Mayo lags behind. She moves slower than before, quieter. She rubs her temples like she’s trying to force something out of her head. The way her eyes shift, distant but not empty, puts you on edge. She’s here, but not fully.

You don’t know why, but you keep looking back at her. Something about her pulls at you, deeper than instinct. You should be focused on survival, escape. But instead, you’re thinking about the past. The first day on the island. The footprints in the sand. The choice to follow them.

The storm. The beast. The blood.

Travis.

You tell yourself it was the right call to leave him behind. That he was already lost. You tell yourself you had no choice. But part of you wonders.

Ahead, Claudia moves without hesitation. She steps over thick roots like she’s done this before, like the jungle is something she understands. You still don’t know if you trust her.

She knows too much. Moves too easily. But at the same time, she isn’t some all-knowing leader. There’s something… fragile about her. She looks human. Tired. Worn. Like she’s been here too long.

You press forward, unable to hold back your questions any longer.

“Claudia, it looks like you’ve been on this island longer than we have. Can you tell us anything you’ve seen that can help us survive or escape?”

She stops walking. For the first time since you met her, she hesitates.

“I been here… dieciséis días. Sixteen days. I don’t know how long for you, but for me? Dieciséis.”

Her voice is steady, but there’s something behind it. Something weary.

“I wake up with other people. No los conocía—I don’t know them. But we try to stay together. Try to… protegernos. Keep safe. But now? Yo creo que… I am the last one. The last one still…” she hesitates, searching for the right word, “still myself.”

The jungle presses in. Too quiet. Too thick.

“This isla… está enferma. Sick. Algo aquí… something here is bad. Corrupto. And the others? Se enfermaron también. They got sick, all of them. No sé si murieron—I don’t know if they die—but they weren’t them anymore. They were… otra cosa.”

She glances over her shoulder, lowers her voice.

“I… kept myself safe. Escondiéndome. Hiding. But there are places… lugares seguros. Places the sickness doesn’t touch. I take you to one.”

You study her. She’s certain.

“Yesterday, vi a alguien. I saw… another player. Estaba solo. Alone. I try to talk, pero… mi inglés es malo. He look at me, and he—” she shrugs, a small, frustrated movement. “Se fue. He run before I get close.”

She doesn’t look at you when she says the next part.

“Creo que… he was afraid of me.”

The thought lingers. Then Claudia slows.

Her eyes shift toward Mayo.

You follow her gaze.

Mayo is dragging her feet. Her head tilts slightly like she’s listening to something no one else can hear.

Claudia’s expression softens.

“No todos los enfermos cambian… not right away.” Her voice is lower now, almost like she’s talking to herself.

She watches Mayo with something deeper than concern. Affection. Grief. Something unspoken.

“A veces, puedes traerlos de vuelta… Sometimes, you can bring them back.”

A moment of silence. The jungle hums around you. Then she looks at you.

“No la voy a dejar. I don’t leave her behind.”

You don’t know why, but the words settle uneasily in your chest.

You keep walking.

Mayo
The jungle hums around you, alive with the rustling of leaves and wind. Still no birds though. Inside your head, there is nothing. No whispers. No distant murmurs. Just silence. It should feel like freedom. Like victory.

It doesn’t.

It’s too empty. The silence feels unnatural, like something has been ripped away, leaving behind an absence that weighs heavier with each step. You drag your feet through the thick jungle floor, falling behind Jim and Claudia as they push forward. Your body feels sluggish, not from exhaustion, but from something deeper. Something missing.

Your breath catches. Is this what healing is supposed to feel like?

Claudia moves ahead without hesitation, cutting through the undergrowth like she’s done it a thousand times. She doesn’t slow, doesn’t question, doesn’t even turn back to check if you’re keeping up.

And somehow, that unsettles you.

“¿Cómo sabes a dónde me llevas?”

Claudia stops, glancing over her shoulder. “Porque lo sé,” she says, certainty laced in her voice.

That’s not enough.

She exhales, stepping closer, her voice dropping lower. “Este lugar… es seguro. No es como los otros. No hay corrupción allí. No enfermedad. Es donde me quedo, donde me escondo. Y ahora? Es donde te llevo.”

You don’t respond, waiting for more.

She studies you for a long moment before continuing. “El agua me protege. Me mantiene a salvo. Me mantiene… yo.” There’s something heavy in the way she says it, like she’s telling you a truth she’s barely come to terms with herself. “Lo sentiste, no? Cuando te sostuve, te lo pasé. Pero se está desvaneciendo. Rápido. Tenemos que volver. O no estarás libre por mucho tiempo.”

Your stomach twists.

You thought the whispers were gone. Thought you had beaten them. Thought Claudia had saved you.

But now?

Now, you’re not so sure.

The trees open up, and the sound of rushing water fills your ears.

The waterfall towers before you, crashing into a shimmering pool below. The spray catches the sunlight, making the whole place seem surreal, untouched. But none of that matters, because you aren’t alone.

Three figures stand atop the waterfall.

A woman glowing red is fighting a monstrous man, his size overwhelming, his glow a violent, bright blue. Behind them, another man watches, hesitant, his glow a weaker blue, like he hasn’t fully embraced it.

You don’t recognize any of them. You’re not sure you could. But Jim does. He stiffens beside you, his breath catching. And Claudia—her eyes widen, her gaze locking onto the uncertain blue-glowing man. The world seems to hold its breath. Jim and Claudia see a fight. A struggle.

But they don’t understand.

They don’t see it for what it is.

These men need you.

They are your brothers.

The woman fights them. She fights you, too.

They are lost, but you can help them.

You are meant to help them.

Your hand twitches.

Your body wants to move.

It’s not a command.

It’s an expectation.

The heaviness is gone. Your legs feel lighter.

You step forward.

Claudia
The roar of the waterfall drowns out the rest of the world, but you can still hear it. The battle. The sharp crack of electricity splitting the air, the rush of water moving like a living thing, the rhythmic impact of bodies colliding with terrible force.

You don’t move.

From your place just inside the jungle’s edge, half-hidden by thick ferns, you watch. Above the waterfall, three figures battle in the mist.

The woman in gold wields the water itself, sweeping her arms in sharp arcs, liquid responding to her like a faithful servant. The monstrous man, a towering force of unnatural strength, counters with something jagged and violent—lightning bursting from his fingertips, raw power bending the air around him.

And then there’s him.

The dim-glowing man stands apart, his light flickering, unsteady, like a candle about to be snuffed out. He hasn’t moved. He’s watching, waiting, caught in the space between choosing and surrendering.

Your fingers dig into the rough bark of a tree.

Because you’ve seen him before.

And you remember exactly when.

Day 1
You wake up gasping, the taste of salt thick on your tongue.

The sand beneath you is hot, rough, too real. The sky above is too white, the sun a strange, unmoving eye that makes your skin crawl.

People stir around you, some groaning, some silent.

A ship’s mast juts out of the jungle in the distance, broken, its tattered flag swaying limply. Someone suggests checking it for supplies, their voice shaking more than they realize.

You don’t follow.

Instead, you watch from the shore as others enter the wreckage, hear their voices disappear into the shadows.

Some come back out, but they aren’t the same. Their hands tremble, their eyes darting, their breath uneven.

And some don’t come out at all.

You turn away.

Day 5
The creature is behind you.

Its breath is wet, sticky, something between an exhale and a growl. Its footsteps are heavy, crushing roots and leaves beneath its monstrous weight.

You don’t look back.

Someone is running beside you, their presence barely registered over the sound of your own heartbeat hammering in your ears.

And then—the waterfall.

A flash of silver mist, the scent of freshwater crashing over stone.

You don’t hesitate. You dive.

The water is shockingly cold, colder than the night air, colder than it should be. It clings to you, presses into your skin, and when you surface, gasping, you know something is different.

Your companion is still on the bank.

They hesitate.

The creature does not.

You watch as it lunges, as something sharp and gleaming like bone pierces their side, as their scream is swallowed by the jungle.

You do not move.

Day 10
The waterfall is your refuge.

It keeps you hidden, keeps you untouched by whatever sickness crawls through the island.

Until it finds you.

A voice.

Soft. Too soft.

“No puedes quedarte aquí para siempre.”

Your chest tightens.

“No fuiste traída aquí para esconderte.”

It paces beyond the water’s edge.

“Fue para elegir.”

You close your eyes.

“Sabes que el tiempo se acaba.”

The laugh it leaves behind is low, hollow, amused.

You stay awake until morning.

Day 15
The jungle is still.

You move carefully, keeping close to the trees, stomach tight with the weight of solitude.

You are the last one.

Or you were.

Because there, on the shore, a man wakes.

You watch as he sits up, blinking at the too-white sky, confusion settling into his features.

You remember this moment.

You remember when it was you.

He turns his head toward the jungle. Toward you.

Your breath catches.

And then, you run.

Your hands tremble against a tree’s rough bark.

The woman in gold steps forward, wielding the waterfall’s power like a weapon, a shield, a force of nature that bends to her will. The monstrous blue man retaliates, his electricity snarling through the air, cutting into the mist.

And the other man.

You know him.

And you should have gotten him into the water.

The weight in your chest is sharp, unbearable. You’ve carried it before. Every time you ran. Every time you watched instead of acted. Every time you let the choice be made by someone else.

The battle rages on.

But you haven’t moved yet.

You are about to.

Jim, Mayo & Claudia’s Options

Protect the Glowing Woman: She’s fighting alone against something far stronger than her. If she falls, who stands against the corruption?
Assist the Monstrous Man: He’s strong, powerful. The island is already changing him. Maybe it’s best to be on the winning side.
Try to Stop the Fight Without Violence: This battle doesn’t need to end in blood. Maybe words can do what weapons cannot.
Get to the Waterfall and Bathe in It: The water protected Claudia. It might protect you too. Will you take the power?
Escape into the Jungle: This fight isn’t yours. You’ve survived by running before. You can still get away.

Part 5: When You See Too Much

(Bryan, Ian & Rosendo)

Bryan
You step down from the rooftop, grit crunching beneath your heels. The air is swollen, thick with the weight of something watching, something waiting. The world around you holds its breath.

The figure smiles.

It is tall and gaunt, its body a grotesque fusion of earth and flesh, as though it had been buried for centuries and the land refused to let it go. Moss clings to its face like a parasite, twigs twist through its limbs, and thin black roots wriggle beneath the surface of its skin, pulsing like veins. It smells like wet earth left too long in the dark, something ripe with decay.

“Finally,” it breathes, its voice a layered thing, a chorus of whispers trapped in a single throat.

You stop a few feet away, tension coiling in your muscles. You’ve spent too long waiting, watching others claim power, clinging to the scraps they let fall.

No more.

You see Rosendo’s face in your mind, see the way he clutched the key, the map, his secrets hoarded close while you begged for a chance to survive.

And now, this thing thinks it can do the same.

The figure tilts its head—but not at you. It’s listening to something. Something you can’t hear. For a flicker of a second, its body jerks, as if something unseen yanked it by invisible strings. A sharp, choking noise escapes its throat.

Then it stills. The smile returns.

“This place is not kind to the weak,” it murmurs, stepping closer. It does not move like a man—it moves like a puppet, its limbs twisting wrong before they settle.

“But you are not weak, are you?”

The wind shifts. It carries the thing’s scent toward you—wet rot, something sweet beneath the decay, like fruit gone to mush.

“The island does not ask for much,” it whispers, circling you now. “Only for acceptance. Acceptance… and hunger.”

Hunger.

The word burrows inside you. Deep. Familiar. Inevitable.

You stare at the thing in front of you, feel the heat rising in your chest, the steady thrum of anger curling through your ribs. It is not offering you power—it is assuming you will take it.

And that is unacceptable.

Your fist connects with its jaw, and the flesh doesn’t break—it collapses inward, soft and wet like striking damp soil. Clumps of moss and blackened bark crumble away. The figure staggers but does not scream.

It laughs.

“Yes.”

You hit it again. And again. Your knuckles sink into damp, yielding flesh, your fingers coated in something rich and black. The thing cracks apart, but it does not resist.

It is offering itself to you.

And when you drive your foot into its chest, feel its ribs splinter like hollow wood, you understand.

It is not a gift.

It is a transfer.

The cold pours into you, something vast, seeping into your marrow, writhing behind your ribs. For a second, your vision blackens, and when it clears—

The earth breathes beneath you.

You feel the roots threading through the soil, the trees shifting in the wind not by chance, but by will. Your will.

Not connection.

Dominion.

You step on the figure’s head as you move past, and it crumbles to dust beneath your heel. The island accepts you now.

And now, you have choices.

You turn toward the building, toward Rosendo’s secrets.

You shift your gaze toward the presence in the shadows, watching you.

Or you set your sights on the jungle, eager to test what your new power can do.

And for the first time, the island is waiting for you to decide.

Bryan’s Options

Confront Rosendo: Head to the building where Rosendo hides, demanding answers—and retribution. With this new power, there’s no more begging. Only taking.
Hunt the concealed watcher: Someone is lurking nearby, watching you, sensing you—just as you sense them. You could approach cautiously… or make an example out of them.
Venture into the Jungle: The jungle pulses with something new, something waiting. You feel it, deep in your bones. What else can you control? How far does your dominion extend? There’s only one way to find out.

Ian
You shouldn’t have left the structure.

That thought loops in your mind, quiet but insistent, as you crouch in the undergrowth, heart hammering against your ribs. You had been safe there, or at least, safer than you feel now. The gnarled wooden walls had felt watchful, aware—but not hostile. Whatever presence lingered there had let you stay, had let you breathe. But you left.

And now, you are here.

The jungle around you is thick with tension, the air heavy and wet, suffocating in the way a storm feels before it breaks. Through the branches, past the clearing, you see the concrete bunker, unnatural in its solid, angular presence among the shifting wilderness. But your focus isn’t on that.

Your focus is on him.

At first, he’s just a shadow against the thinning night, barely more than a shape moving through the haze of pre-dawn. But then the light shifts—the first tendrils of sunrise creeping over the trees—and you recognize him.

Bryan.

You haven’t seen him since the shipwreck, and even then, you barely knew him. But something about the way he moves now is wrong.

He walks toward the thing waiting for him in the clearing.

You don’t know what it is, only that it isn’t human—not anymore. The figure stands still, tall, its body dark with earth and tangled with growth, like it had been buried and left to rot before being pulled back to the surface. It smiles at Bryan.

And then—movement.

From the ground.

Your breath hitches. The earth behind Bryan shifts, soft as disturbed sand. And then, they begin to rise.

One. Two. Five.

Thin, twisted figures peel themselves from the dirt, their bodies half-submerged, like things waiting beneath the surface. They do not rush forward. They do not attack.

They are waiting.

A cold knot coils in your stomach.

Waiting for what?

Bryan doesn’t see them. He keeps moving forward, his steps slow, deliberate, his focus locked on the figure in front of him.

The others do not move. They watch.

The first figure speaks—a voice not meant for human ears, layered, distorted, crawling over itself in echoes. You can’t make out the words, but the way Bryan holds himself, the way his shoulders tense, tells you everything.

The jungle seems to hold its breath.

Then Bryan lashes out.

His fist connects with the figure’s jaw, and the sound is not bone breaking, but soil collapsing, wet and hollow. The thing staggers, crumbling, laughing.

And behind him—

The others vanish.

Not like they are fleeing. Not like they are escaping.

They dissolve.

Like they were never there at all.

The earth swallows them in silence, and the jungle exhales.

Something in the air shifts. The leaves around you curl inward, the trees pulling away, as if something in nature itself is trying to retreat.

Your fingers press into the dirt.

Your lungs burn, but you do not move.

Then Bryan stops.

And he turns his head.

Not toward the bunker.

Not toward the jungle.

Toward you.

The moment stretches, thin as thread, taut as wire, waiting to snap.

He doesn’t see you. He can’t.

But he knows.

You are out of time.

Ian’s Options

Stay Hidden: Remain perfectly still, willing the jungle to keep you concealed. Or for Bryan to choose a different path.
Make a Break for the Bunker: Sprint for the only solid structure nearby—whoever is inside might know something. At least it will be safer in there.
Confront Bryan: Step out, reveal yourself, and try to understand what Bryan has become. Maybe you can work together.

Rosendo
The lab should be comforting. For as long as you can remember, sterile environments mean control—mean safety. Even now, with the bunker’s flickering lights casting sickly white patches over the metal counters and cold concrete walls, even with the scent of formaldehyde mixing with the deeper, older stink of rot, a part of you wants to trust this place. The part of you that still believes knowledge is power.

But something about this lab is lying to you.

The computer. The tubes. The table. Three sources of information, three doors you could open. Your eyes linger on the table first, its surface draped in a crisp, white sheet, too perfectly placed, the edges tucked down like someone has taken special care. Whatever is beneath it, someone wants to preserve. Your stomach twists. Not yet.

The glass tubes lining the far wall are clouded with something dark, thick. Is it fluid? Decay? Are they preserving something? Growing something? It doesn’t matter. The computer is the key.

You turn away from the room, from the table, from whatever is beneath the sheet. The monitor is dead.

You crouch, reaching blindly behind the desk, your fingers slipping over cold metal, tangled wires, dust-coated ports. Something cold and damp squelches under your nails, and you force down the shudder crawling up your spine.

Then—a sound behind you.

Your spine stiffens. A soft, deliberate shift of weight has come from behind you. Slowly, heart hammering, you turn your head—but nothing has changed. The table is exactly the same. The sheet is undisturbed. Your breath comes faster, but you shake off the tension, refocusing on the cables. You find a loose plug, secure it—

A beep. The monitor flickers to life, dim blue light washing over the desk.

The interface is old. Not just outdated—unnervingly old. You frown. How old are you? The thought should be ridiculous, should have an immediate, obvious answer. But for some reason, you don’t know.

The screen flickers, waiting. A single blinking command prompt.

Cameras.

“Command not recognized.”

Island.

“Command not recognized.”

You clench your jaw, fingers hovering. Think. You type: Experiments.

The screen goes black. And the lights go out.

Total darkness. The kind of blackness that doesn’t feel empty—it feels full.

Then—shuffle. Louder. Closer.

You twist toward the sound, but there is nothing. Nothing but pitch black. You hold your breath. Listen. Wait. An eternity.

Then—

A flicker. A hum.

The monitor erupts back to life. Its glow floods the room, cutting through the dark, drenching the walls in a cold, eerie blue.

Your breath catches. The white sheet lies crumpled on the floor. The table is empty.

Your pulse slams against your ribs. You never heard it move.

And then, before you can react—the screen explodes with images.

Too fast. Too much. They pour into you, burn through your retinas, carved into your skull. Space. A figure typing on a laptop in the dark. An island. A meteorite blazing blue as it crashes through the atmosphere. A ship, sailors fighting a storm, then the ship filled with bones.

Creeping, glowing veins threading through the bodies of dead and dying animals. People strapped to tables, injected with red liquid. Others injected with blue. A howling dog in a cage, foaming at the mouth, its eyes glowing blue.

A man taking an axe to a red tree—and immediately falling dead. A machine, an engine bigger than anything you have ever seen. A waterfall with something wrong beneath it. A glowing pool. A man drowning another inside it.

A woman standing by a fire, her face monstrous, her eyes burning blue, fighting someone in the flickering light. A younger woman at the base of a lighthouse, something watching her from above.

You should know them. You should know them.

A storm. A monster. A storm. A monster. A storm. A monster.

A blue eye where the moon should be.

Then—yourself.

You see your own hands locking a door.

And outside—Bryan, beating something to dust in the jungle.

The images vanish.

Your body collapses onto the cold floor. Your brain feels too full, overstuffed, cracking at the seams. Your vision blurs, your thoughts spiraling. Your mind has run out of space.

Overhead, the lights flicker again, weaker this time. And then—

A sound.

A low, rasping exhale.

A breath.

Or a laugh.

Your heart stops. Your gaze lifts.

In the far corner of the lab, where the light barely touches—something is hunched over. Watching. Waiting.

You have seconds to act. But your mind is shattered.

And the thing in the corner knows it.

Rosendo’s Options

Get up and run: Forget the computer. Forget the knowledge. Get back up the stairs and out before it’s too late.
Confront the figure: What if this thing knows something? What if it’s part of the truth?
Try to use the computer again: You have to know. The machine has more to tell you. Maybe the thing will ignore you.

Part 6: Above The Waterfall

(Mike)

You drift across the island, carried by something unseen. The jungle below is a blur of shadow and movement, trees bending as if whispering to one another, the air thick with a hum you almost understand. The island breathes beneath you, alive, watching. You feel weightless, floating toward something that calls to you, something glowing ahead in the distance.

The waterfall.

It shines, bright and perfect, cascading over jagged black rocks into a pool that shimmers like molten silver. You had hoped for light, for something pure, but you see now that this place is not untouched. The glow of the water is drowned in something greater, something unfolding atop the falls, where three figures stand, locked in a battle that shakes the world beneath them.

A woman bathed in gold moves like liquid, her arms sweeping, the water answering. It bends and twists to her will, surging, roaring, striking out like a living force. She is power, defiance, something untouched by the sickness that creeps through the island. Opposing her, a monstrous figure looms, his body thrumming with energy, blue light crackling along his arms like lightning desperate to escape. He moves with a force that feels inevitable, deliberate. He is not human anymore—he is something greater, something worse.

Between them, a third man hesitates. His glow is weak, unsteady, flickering like the last embers of a dying fire. He watches the fight unfold, but he does not move, as if waiting for the world to decide for him.

And then you see the others.

They move through the jungle, silent, watching. A woman walks in the lead, something growing inside her, a light dim but strengthening with every step she takes toward the water. She does not know what she is becoming, but you see it. Beside her, a man walks with no glow at all. He is untouched, unchanged, as if the island has never laid a finger on him. How? Why?

Then there is the marked woman.

She stumbles. Her body flickers at the edges, her light twisting, pulled by something unseen. You feel it happening to her, the invisible hands reaching, dragging her toward a fate she hasn’t chosen, hasn’t even realized is creeping up behind her. The force that owns her is trying to reclaim what it lost.

The jungle holds its breath.

And then, a scream.

It rips through the world, through you, through the island itself.

It is not just sound. It is force, something that shakes the roots of the trees, cracks the sky, splits open the very fabric of existence. You do not hear it. You feel it.

It burns you.

The moment it hits, your floating body convulses. Fire erupts inside your invisible ribs, claws into your nonexistent chest, sears through your spectral skull. The pain is too much, too deep, as if something inside you is being ripped apart, exposed, judged. The whispers inside you scream in agony, writhing, thrashing, desperate to flee.

But something else holds your detached body together.

A weight in your chest. A presence pressing against the pain, stopping it from swallowing you whole. It is not the whispers. It is not the island’s sickness. It is something else. Something that wants you to survive this.

Through the haze of pain, you see the effects ripple outward. The blue-glowing monster stumbles, his hands gripping his head as if the cry shattered something inside him. The golden woman does not waver—she stands taller, surging forward, renewed. The dim-glowing man trembles on the edge of his decision, the moment forcing itself upon him.

In the jungle, the marked woman collapses.

The woman growing in light does not fall—she stands firm, as if something has lifted her instead of striking her down. The man beside her remains still, unaffected, untouched, the only one who does not react.

The dream quivers, breaking apart at the edges. The world blurs, colors running together like ink in water. You are slipping, weightless, untethered, fading.

You should not be here.

But you were allowed to see.

And now, you must choose.

Do you keep watching, letting the vision unfold? Do you fight to wake yourself up? Do you try to reach the glowing pool of the waterfall, testing if a dream can save you? Or do you drift somewhere else, let the vision pull you deeper, showing you something even worse?

Mike’s Options

Keep Watching: The vision was given for a reason. The island wants you to understand something unique. Watch long enough, and you might witness the moment the battle tips or see who truly wins.
Try to Wake Up: This isn’t real. Your body is trapped where you collapsed. If you stay too long, you might never leave. Force yourself awake now; you may still have time to act before it’s too late.
Enter the Glowing Pool: The water is power. From here, you feel it. If it can cleanse others, maybe it can cleanse you. Reach it, submerge yourself, and let it wash over you; perhaps you can finally be free.
Stay Asleep, But Go Somewhere Else: If this vision can show you this battle, it can show you more. Maybe there’s something beyond this fight, something deeper, something hidden. If you let yourself drift, if you surrender to the dream’s pull, where will it take you?

Part 7: Not Dead Yet

(Boon, Cowin & Andrew)

Boon
You don’t think. You fight.

Your body explodes into motion, twisting, jerking, thrashing like an animal caught in a trap. The moment those slick, black hands wrap around your ankles, panic detonates in your chest. There’s no time to think. No time to yell. No time for anything except pure survival.

You kick hard, your foot smacking into something solid—a wrist? A forearm?—but the thing doesn’t recoil. Instead, the grip tightens, iron-hard, twisting, pulling. More hands—too many hands, too many fingers—crawl up your legs, wrapping around your knees, your thighs, your ribs.

The smell hits you next.

Rot.

Putrid, damp decay. Like meat left in the sun, but worse. Richer. Deeper. The stench of something that was never alive to begin with. It floods your nose, chokes your throat, makes your stomach lurch.

You gag, but you don’t stop fighting.

You lunge sideways, digging your fingers into the sand, trying to crawl away—but the grains slip through your grip like water. Another hand clamps around your wrist—too thin, its skin stretched too tight like it’s barely holding in something writhing underneath. When you yank against it, the skin buckles and slides, as if it’s ready to slough off entirely.

Your burned hand screams in protest, the raw flesh tearing against the sand as you claw and scrape. But you keep swinging, keep struggling, keep thrashing because that’s what instinct demands.

You fight like hell.

Because what else can you do?

They laugh.

Not one voice. A chorus.

Layered. Overlapping. Wet. Hungry.

“You should have left them.”

“Should have let Mayo go.”

“You think Bryan is still alive?”

The words slice into you. You try to ignore them, but they burrow deep, slithering under your skin like parasites. Your breath stutters, your heartbeat slamming against your ribs. You don’t believe them. You don’t. But what if—?

The hands crawl higher.

Over your chest.

Over your shoulders.

A pair of greasy, black fingers brush your throat.

Squeeze.

Your vision sparks white.

The world tilts. Your lungs claw for air, but there’s nothing to take. More hands wrap over your face, pressing against your mouth, your eyes, your ears. The laughter stretches thin—warping, twisting, growing distant—as the pressure around you builds, and builds, and builds.

And then—

You see it.

Not the ocean.

Not the sky.

Not even the hands.

The sand itself.

It’s moving. Not just shifting—opening.

A slow, yawning maw, swallowing you grain by grain. The hands aren’t just pulling you under.

They’re offering you to something beneath.

A fresh wave of terror rips through you. You buck, kick, twist violently, but it’s too late.

They slam you down, hard enough to rattle your bones, and suddenly, you’re not just being held.

You’re being pinned.

And the thing beneath you moves.

Not much. Just a shift, a breath, a slow, deliberate inhalation.

The laughter stops.

And in the suffocating silence, the hands tighten.

The sand caves in around you.

The weight is crushing. Your body sinks, sinks, sinks. Your limbs feel numb. Heavy. Useless.

You fight, but your body isn’t listening anymore.

The last thing you feel is something enormous stirring beneath you.

“No one resists the island’s will.”

A final cruel laugh.

And then—

The sand swallows you whole

Silence.

Stillness.

Darkness.

Cowin
The sand feels solid beneath your feet, and for the first time in hours—maybe longer—you almost believe you’ve made it.

The ocean is behind you. The whispers. The wreck. The shark. You and Andrew survived. You clung to that floating beam, kicked your way back to shore, and now you’re here—alive.

And the whispers… haven’t followed.

You half-expected them to. Even as you dragged yourself from the water, even as you felt the ground beneath you again, some part of you thought that the second your foot touched the island, they would crawl back into your mind.

But they haven’t.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Maybe you really are free.

But survival is more than that. You didn’t come here just to be alive.

You came to find more allies. To find Boon.

You recognize him immediately—a familiar face from the shipwreck. He’s still crouched down the shoreline. You don’t know him well, but he’s a survivor. Like you. Like Andrew. Still being alive is enough right now.

Strength in numbers.

You and Andrew move toward him, picking up speed, but as you do, the air shifts.

The fire on the beach at the jungle’s edge flickers in the distance, casting long shadows over the sand, distracting you for a moment.

You look back at the shoreline.

Boon isn’t crouching anymore.

At first, you think he’s just moving strangely, swaying like he’s dizzy. But then—

He jerks violently. Arms kicking against nothing, hands clawing at the air, head snapping side to side like something’s pulling him down.

And then you see them.

The hands.

Dozens of them. Black, slick, writhing. They claw their way up Boon’s legs, fingers coiling around his arms, his waist, his throat. You see his teeth bared, muscles straining as he fights them off.

But the more he struggles, the more they pull.

The sun is rising—a deep red glow over the horizon, stretching long fingers across the shore. It should make things clearer. It should bring safety.

It doesn’t.

It only sharpens the nightmare.

Andrew is the first to react.

“Shit—GO!”

You don’t think. You just run.

Your feet slam into the sand, breath burning in your chest, Andrew right beside you—reaching, reaching, grabbing for Boon—

Too late.

The sun creeps higher.

Boon is already gone.

Andrew
Boon is gone.

You and Cowin stare at the spot where he should be, breath still coming too fast, your hands outstretched like you might still catch him. But there’s nothing left to catch.

The sand lies smooth and undisturbed, like he was never there at all.

A muscle in your jaw twitches. This isn’t right. This isn’t how this part of the story is supposed to go. There should be something. A body. A sign. A final taunt from the island.

Instead, there’s just… silence.

And for the first time since stepping onto this island, you don’t hear the voices.

You expect them—the mocking whispers, the cruel laughter, like they taunted you in the shipwreck. This is their moment to gloat.

But there’s nothing.

You glance at Cowin. He’s already dropped to his knees, hands digging into the sand. You follow. What else is there to do?

You dig.

Nothing.

You dig harder.

The waves lap gently at the beach, smoothing the shore cleaner and cleaner—removing the evidence, wiping Boon from existence. The sand shifts beneath your fingers, too light, too easy.

Was he even here?

That’s the thought that chills you most. That maybe you and Cowin hallucinated the whole thing. That the island has already rewritten the past, made Boon into nothing more than a glitch in the memory of two men who are still, somehow, here.

The sky is lighter now, streaked with pale gold, but it feels wrong. The sun is rising, and yet it takes nothing away from the silence Boon left behind.

Your arms ache. Your breaths come sharp. You’re about to tell Cowin to stop.

And then a scream splits the sky.

It’s not near you. It’s not far. It’s everywhere.

A sound of rage. Of battle. Of something declaring war on the entire island.

You freeze. The air itself trembles.

Then—light.

A pulse of red flashes from the rocky shoreline—crimson, bright, searing, gone before you fully see it.

Wait, a ship’s mast. That way. In the distance.

No chance I’m falling for that again.

Then another light—but behind you.

You don’t turn in time. You only see the briefest flicker of blue light illuminating the sand, as if something—or someone—had been standing by the fire.

Then—gone.

Cowin digs one more time.

And suddenly, the sand is glowing.

A soft blue light pulses beneath his hands. And just as it appears—

The voices return.

Not in your head.

In the air.

Many voices. Screaming. Howling. Some in anguish. Some in rage.

Then—a hand.

Not black. Not wrong.

A burned hand, trembling in Cowin’s grip.

You grab hold. Together, you and Cowin pull, pull, pull—

And then, Boon is there.

Alive. Coughing. Eyes wild.

He fights at first, arms swinging, confusion thrashing through his muscles.

“Boon! It’s us!”

A beat. His body goes still.

You all sit there, shaking, breathless, alive.

Then, somehow—laughter.

Because what else is there to do?

Boon inches further from the water than you and Cowin.

Good thinking.

Boon, Cowin & Andrew’s Options

Follow the Crimson Light: Something caused that pulse of red near the rocks. If you go toward it, you might find an ally or an answer. But what happens when you get too close?
Investigate the Fire and the Blue Light: The fire behind you flashed blue. Is it a person, a signal, or a trap? If you check it out, you might find something—or someone—waiting. But Jordanna is still out there, and if the island is watching, is this what it wants?
Follow the Scream: The island didn’t like what just happened. That scream was real and came from the heart of the island. Follow it, and you might find who—or what—is suffering. But if the voices aren’t human, what was the scream?

Part 8: You Are The Island

(Jill)

You never wanted to go to the mast in the first place.

The thought comes again, steady, firm. Even when you saw the mast shift across the island, even when it loomed there like some terrible monument, you felt it in your bones: not my path. And that hasn’t changed.

But this?

This is something else.

You crouch in the undergrowth, heart steady, breath slow. Watching.

The figure on the beach isn’t moving much at first, just crouched near the shoreline. Even from this distance, something about him feels… wrong. Not like he’s dangerous—but like he’s broken. A weight hanging over him, pressing him down into the earth.

You don’t trust him. You don’t trust anyone.

Only the island.

Then—a flicker.

A soft blue glow, barely there, moving from the beach toward the jungle in the distance. Not natural. Not like the fire beside it. For a second, it’s almost beautiful—then it’s gone, slipping into the trees.

Your eyes snap back to the figure.

Two more people emerge from the water—men.

They move quickly, heading straight for him. Not aggressive. Not cautious. There’s purpose in their steps.

Then the crouched figure jerks.

Collapses forward onto his hands and knees.

Something is wrong.

Your body tenses, every instinct pulling forward—but you don’t move. You made your choice. You’re watching.

Could be a trick. Could be a test. Could be worse.

The two men reach him. You see their heads turn, looking down, searching. The figure—the man—isn’t there anymore.

You don’t have to hear them to know they are lost in that moment.

Resignation.

Something in your stomach knots.

Then—

A scream.

No. Not a scream.

A war cry.

It splits the sky, shakes the air, floods into your ribs like a battle you were born to fight.

And just like that—

You aren’t Jill anymore.

You are the sand beneath your feet.
The waves lapping at the shore.
The sun rising over the island.

You are the island.

It doesn’t feel powerful—not in the way you imagined power should feel. It feels immense. Like you could stretch your arms wide and touch both horizons at once. Like you could whisper, and every tree in the jungle would bow its head in answer.

The war cry thrums through you, and you feel it rather than hear it. This isn’t just the dawn of a new day.

This is a day for change.

And then—your vision shifts.

Time slows, but only for you.

You know where the cry came from. You could point to the exact place, call out the name of whoever screamed it, and the island would carry your voice straight to them.

You turn back toward the mast—

And it is nothing.

Not a monument. Not a landmark. A toy ship. A thing you could crush beneath your fingers.

Then, the blue light.

Not faint now—blazing, brighter than the fire beside it.

And wrong.

The island is in it, but it is not the island. It has burrowed deep, hidden itself inside something that does not belong. A parasite.

A sickness.

And below, on the shore, there are three men.

She had been watching—waiting—when they ran toward the one who was struggling, but by the time they reached him, he was gone.

Now, he isn’t.

Rescued.

And yet the place where he had disappeared still hums with something wrong. A heaviness, a wound that refuses to close. The island took him, and then it gave him back—but something still lingers.

And you see it now.

The question isn’t what will you do?

The question is—what is the island asking you to do?

Jill’s Options

Follow the War Cry: The island didn’t just hear that cry—you felt it. You know where it came from, like the sound carved into your bones. If someone called the island to battle, they may be an ally or you might be walking into the fight the island has been waiting for.
Confront the Ship Once and For All: The mast is no longer daunting; it’s a small relic of the past. You could end it—tear it down and erase its power. But if the island wanted it gone, wouldn’t it be gone already?
Extinguish the Blue Light: The fire burns as always, but beside it, something festers—a parasite, a sickness. The island is in the light, but not of it. If you approach, you might snuff it out before it spreads. But if it’s feeding off someone, what happens when it fights back?
Approach the Men on the Beach: The island has brought you and them here. Three strangers still alive. If you approach, you might find understanding or discover they are no more human than the island itself.

Part 9: The Cold Inside You

(Jordanna)

You emerge from the ocean, but there is no relief.

The waves roll away from you, gentle now, as if they were never violent, as if they never dragged you under, held you down, let something take root inside you.

But they did.

And so did she.

Lauren. Her hands around your throat, inhumanly strong, forcing you beneath the surface like you were nothing.

That was the scariest moment of your life.

Or at least, it should have been.

But it wasn’t.

Because what’s worse than being dragged under by something wrong—is knowing that whatever had possessed her is now inside you.

You feel it, sitting there, deep in your core, as if your body isn’t fully yours anymore.

But you move forward. You see the fire on the beach, still burning, and tell yourself you should be cold.

You’ve been in the ocean for so long, pulled through currents, forced through the dark. Your body should be shaking, skin numb, bones aching.

But you aren’t cold.

Or maybe you are.

But not on the outside.

It’s deeper than that.

A cold that won’t leave. A cold that doesn’t need warmth.

You don’t look at the figure near the shoreline. Don’t wonder if Cowin or Andrew made it. It doesn’t matter.

Either they are a threat to you, or you are a threat to them.

You walk toward the fire.

It’s lower than before, crackling softly, still alive. It should be warm. You should feel something.

You crouch beside it, hold your hands up to the flames, waiting—

Nothing.

No heat against your palms. No warmth sinking into your skin.

The fire doesn’t touch you.

What is wrong with me?

And then—

A voice.

What are you doing?

It isn’t outside you. It’s inside.

A whisper curling in your ears, soft at first, then sharper, digging in.

Why are you wasting time? Don’t you know you have a job to do?

You inhale sharply. Ignore it. It’s not real.

The voice laughs.

You were spared for a reason. You were given a gift. The gift of life. And you need to repay it.

Your fingers twitch. You keep staring at the fire, pretending you don’t hear it.

The voice doesn’t like that.

Oh, you think ignoring me will work?

The laughter gets louder. Maniacal. Twisting.

You close your eyes. Think of home. Think of anything else.

But there is no home.

There is only the island.

There is only this.

The voice softens, just a little.

You are home.

The laugh crescendos, spinning, tightening, something inside you coiling—

And then—

Pain.

A yell, distant, from the jungle. A battle cry, but you can barely hear it through the piercing in your skull.

The voice stops laughing.

It is screaming.

And then you are screaming, too.

It’s in your chest, in your core, in that frozen space where your heart should be. It’s splitting apart, breaking free, shattering you from the inside out.

You glow.

Not the fire.

Not the ground.

You.

A sickly blue light pulses through your skin, casting long shadows against the sand, twisting the air around you.

You stagger, lifting your gaze—

And in the distance, down the coastline, a sickly crimson light flares.

The voice in your head catches its breath. Breath it shouldn’t have

It isn’t laughing now.

It knows what that is.

The red light.

That being.

The source of the pain.

The voice catches its breath, then whispers, urgent, desperate.

It must be stopped.

You shudder, the words lodging deep inside you, twisting against your ribs.

There is only one way for you to survive the island.

You must purge it.

Rid the island of the red light.

Only then will you, and others like you, be free.

Your body sways. Others like me?

But then—

Your eyes catch movement on the beach.

Andrew.

Cowin.

BOON. You vaguely remember him from when the ship was still on the beach. A lifetime ago. Your lifetime ago.

They sit together, 100 feet away, unaware of you. Not glowing.

But there is something on Andrew and Cowin.

A residue.

Faint. But there.

It reminds you of Lauren.

For a moment, your chest aches with something close to sadness.

Then you realize—

It doesn’t remind you of Lauren.

It reminds you of yourself.

Your fingers clench. Are they like me?

Will they help me?

And Boon…

You stare at him, not sure why he feels different.

The voice doesn’t say anything. It’s waiting.

And for the first time since emerging from the ocean, so are you.

Jordanna’s Options

Go towards Cowin, Andrew & Boon: You don’t feel like yourself, but you know these man. And maybe they can help you.
Rid the island of the red light: You know what you must do. You know why you were spared. Why you feel powerful. There are enemies here, and you’re not done fighting.
Turn into the jungle: There’s nothing for you on the beach, only trouble. You’re going to find your way out of this. Alone.

Part 10: The Battle Begins

(Michelle)

You crouch on the thick limb of the Bloodwood Tree, fingers pressing into its rough bark. Below, the figures—dark, motionless things—stand in a tight ring, their faces unreadable, their silence heavier than the humid air. They do not move. They do not speak. But they are waiting.

You know you need to act.

Climbing down would be suicide. Whatever those things are, they are not human—not anymore. Climbing higher might give you a vantage point, but something about the idea makes your stomach knot. The tree has protected you, but what if it doesn’t want to let you go?

Then you feel it—not in your body, but in your bones.

A battle. Somewhere beyond the trees. Not just struggle—a fight for survival. And someone is losing. It isn’t a guess or a hunch. It’s as if your mind reaches out and touches it, the way a hand finds a pulse. The fear, the desperation—it’s not yours, but it floods through you all the same.

An ally. Someone who needs you.

Your body tenses. Your breath sharpens. You feel the sap pulsing through your veins, the Bloodwood thrumming beneath you, and suddenly you know what to do.

You scream.

It rips from you like a living thing, not just a sound, but a force. The tree shudders beneath you, bark groaning, branches bending as if reaching. The figures shriek in agony, hands clawing at their faces, their bodies buckling under the weight of your voice.

The sun bursts over the horizon, golden light spearing through the jungle, setting the Bloodwood Tree ablaze with color.

The figures break. They do not run. They collapse, their forms twisting, unraveling—some dissolving into black mist, others stumbling blindly into the jungle, their screams swallowed by the rising wind. And then, they are gone.

All of them.

The island shifts beneath you. Not literally—no tremor, no quake—but you feel it. A pulse, like a great beast stirring in its sleep.

And then comes knowing—not thought, not vision, but raw, terrible awareness.

There are others.

Scattered across the island. Some are pure, burning bright with the same strange energy that now coils in your bones. But there are also others, sick with the foul, crawling thing that doesn’t belong here. A corruption. A wound in the island itself.

And you?

You are not neutral anymore.

You let the last of your scream fade, and for the first time, the island is silent.

The tree feels warm under your fingers—almost alive. The bark isn’t just rough. It’s breathing.

The idea unsettles you. When you climb down, there is a strange moment where you are unsure if you are leaving the tree, or if the tree is releasing you.

Feet on the ground. The figures are gone. The island is listening.

And now you have a choice.

You turn toward the beach. The place where it all began. Something is happening there. A shift. A presence you weren’t aware of before.

Your head shifts toward the battle you sensed earlier. It is still happening. And whoever is fighting—they won’t last much longer.

Then your eyes drift to the deepest part of the jungle, the place where even the island seems reluctant to look. The sickness is strongest there. The thing that shouldn’t be here. The meteorite from your visions. A rotten wound, pulsing at the island’s core.

And for the first time since waking up on this island, you feel like you matter in this fight.

You take your first step.

Michelle’s Options

Return to the Beach: Something stirs where it all began. A shift, a presence you weren’t aware of before. If you go back, you might find answers—or something waiting for you in the sand.
Rush to the Battle: The fight is still happening. You can feel it—your ally is barely holding on. If you don’t move now, you might be too late.
Venture into the Island’s Core: The sickness is strongest here. The thing that shouldn’t be. The meteorite from your visions pulses like an open wound, festering. If this is the source of the island’s corruption, maybe it’s time to face it.

Part 11: You Are Nothing

(Chelsea & Peter)

You are nothing.

You are everything.

You have no body, no form, no weight to anchor you, but somehow you are still here. You should have shattered on impact, bones turned to dust, flesh stripped away in ribbons, reduced to nothing but a whisper in the void. Maybe you did.

Because now, you are floating.

Or falling.

Or suspended in something that isn’t space, isn’t time, isn’t real.

The void around you breathes. Not with air, but with motion, a shifting, pulsing awareness that coils through the darkness like an unseen tide. It is alive, but empty. A hollow thing that should not exist, stretching infinitely in every direction. And yet, it moves.

And within it—visions.

They come in bursts, erratic and fleeting, fragments of the island. But not the island you knew.

The sky presses too close, low and pulsing like the inside of a lung. The trees writhe, their branches curling like fingers reaching for something unseen. The ocean bucks and twists, rolling upward instead of out, waves crashing against a horizon that isn’t there.

People flicker into existence. Hundreds of them. Thousands. They live and die in an instant, their forms bending, stretching, collapsing into something else. You recognize none of them, and yet you know them. Their lives have been carved into this place, their stories written in the bones beneath the soil.

You see rituals carried out beneath eclipsed moons. You see blood spilled on stone, hands raised in supplication, bodies vanishing like smoke. You see acts of kindness so bright they nearly burn through the darkness.

You see the island as it was.

As it is.

As it will be.

Or maybe, as it could have been.

It has always been. And it is watching you.

The realization comes slowly, then all at once. You were wrong.

You shouldn’t have fought against the pull. You shouldn’t have tried to hold each other together when the island was tearing you apart. Maybe you should have let go.

But you didn’t.

And now, here you are, untethered. Waiting for whatever comes next.

The visions blur, fading into the pulsing dark. The void grows still. And then—the paths appear.

Not roads, not tunnels, not anything real. They are clouds of smoke, shifting, curling, folding in on themselves like they are trying to form shapes, meanings, answers.

One is blue.

One is gold.

They do not ask where you want to go. They ask what you want to be.

The blue path moves like water, deep and unfathomable, glowing faintly with cold light. It hums in the back of your skull, a whisper of knowledge too vast to comprehend. It feels like sinking into something vast and endless, something that knows the truth of the island and demands you understand it, too.

The gold path burns softly, alive with warmth, flickering with something older than language. It pulses like a heartbeat, full of motion, full of change. It does not offer answers, only the chance to keep moving.

Neither of them feel safe.

Neither of them feel like home.

You have to choose.

And you have to choose alone.

Chelsea & Peter’s Options

Drift into the Blue Cloud: This path feels like surrender and revelation. There is something vast inside it that knows. It whispers not in words, but in understanding. Step into it, and you will know what this island is and why it exists. But at what cost? Will you still be you, or will you be something the island can use?
Drift into the Gold Cloud: This path feels like life and struggle. There are no answers, only movement, warmth, pain, and choice. If you step forward, you must keep fighting and surviving, trying to understand what it means to be alive on an island that does not want you. Is it better to fight for yourself in the unknown or to give in and become something certain?

And so as The Island’s story continues, powers rise up. How high can they go before they come crashing down?

Make Your Choice:

Go back

	jeanssyrai on Chapter 12: The Quiet Between…
	Anonymous on Chapter 9: Domination
	inquisitivelypoetry8… on Chapter 6: Surrender Comes…
	survivorhamilton on Chapter 2: Into the Unkno…
	Anonymous on Chapter 2: Into the Unkno…

Chapter 9: Domination

Chapter 9: Domination

Part 1: Definitely Not A Trap

Part 2: What Waits Below

Part 3: You Asked For This

Part 4: Sixteen Days

Part 5: When You See Too Much

Part 6: Above The Waterfall

Part 7: Not Dead Yet

Part 8: You Are The Island

Part 9: The Cold Inside You

Part 10: The Battle Begins

Part 11: You Are Nothing

Make Your Choice:

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Part 1: Definitely Not A Trap

Part 2: What Waits Below

Part 3: You Asked For This

Part 4: Sixteen Days

Part 5: When You See Too Much

Part 6: Above The Waterfall

Part 7: Not Dead Yet

Part 8: You Are The Island

Part 9: The Cold Inside You

Part 10: The Battle Begins

Part 11: You Are Nothing

Make Your Choice:

Your message has been sent

Vibe Check:

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