Previously on SURVIVE: The Island…
At the lighthouse, Tyfanna’s sudden liberation from the whispers creates an unsettling calm, immediately suspect to Graham and cautiously observed by Mayoli. Despite their wariness, the enigmatic pull of the basement and the disturbing approach of a changed Tyfanna compel them all to descend, a decision ripe with potential revelations about the island’s core.
The brutal clash at the waterfall culminates in a significant power shift. Chris, empowered by the island, and Jordan, now willingly corrupted, overwhelm Andrea, whose connection to the island’s life force appears to falter. This victory for the darker energies signals a potential rise in malevolent influence across the island.
In the jungle, the journey of Jim, Claudia, and a detached Mayo progresses towards the waterfall, believed by Claudia to offer protection. However, Mayo’s altered perception, viewing Chris and Jordan as needing her help against Andrea, hints at the insidious reach of the island’s manipulation and a potentially dangerous divergence in their aims. Travis’s complete assimilation into the pack, witnessing Jim’s different state and aligning with the victorious blue energy at the waterfall, sets him on a path to confront his former ally. The tense standoff between Bryan, empowered by a dark pact, the trapped Ian, and the fleeing Rosendo escalates, the jungle becoming a stage for Bryan’s vengeful pursuit.
On the beach, the uneasy alliance of Andrew, Jill, Boon, and Cowin faces imminent disruption with the arrival of Jordanna, driven by a hostile directive to eliminate Jill, setting the stage for a violent confrontation. Boon remains a vulnerable figure amidst these rising tensions.
Beyond the physical realm, Chelsea and Peter navigate abstract choices in the void. Chelsea opts for the struggle of life in the golden light, while Peter embraces the potential knowledge of the blue, even at the risk of losing himself to the island’s influence. Mike, reawakening with fragmented memories, chooses to follow the real voices he hears, a decision that could lead him towards either salvation or new dangers. Michelle faced her toughest test yet. A meeting with whoever, or whatever, has been controlling this whole game…
Jump to:
Ian, Bryan, Mike & Rosendo
Cowin, Boon, Jill, Jordanna & Andrew
Graham, Mayoli, Tyfanna & Peter
Mayo, Claudia, Jim, Travis, Jordan, Chris, Andrea & Chelsea
Michelle
Email me your decisions at mike.hamilton2010@gmail.com
Part 1: Nothing Left to Say
(Ian, Bryan, Mike & Rosendo)
Ian
You can’t breathe right. Not because the roots are squeezing your ribs—though they are—but because you can hear yourself. Hear the way your voice is breaking. Hear the desperation dripping off every word like sweat.
“Please,” you whisper, then louder, “Bryan—come on, just—please.”
No response.
The roots shift again. Not tighter, not looser—just… alive. Like they’re listening too.
“Look, I didn’t—I didn’t do anything. You don’t have to—” Your words crumble in your mouth. They sound small. You sound small.
Your throat burns. The taste of dirt is still there, metallic and bitter, like old blood. You try again anyway. Maybe this time, something will reach him.
“Bryan. Please. I didn’t mean to—I didn’t even—”
No reaction. Not a glance. Not a twitch. He’s standing right there, not even pretending to listen. Just… waiting. Watching something else.
You choke on whatever was coming next.
Your heart is pounding, wild and chaotic, like it’s trying to kick its way out of your chest. You were supposed to be the careful one. The observer. The quiet thinker at the edge of the group. You climbed the mast. You stayed out of the fights. You watched the ones who ran headfirst into madness and told yourself you’d be different.
You tried to survive by standing still.
And now you’re pinned to the ground by something that doesn’t breathe, doesn’t care, and doesn’t stop. And Bryan—he glows now. Not brightly. Just enough to make it clear: he’s not like you anymore.
You try again, not even knowing what you’re saying. The words are just noise now. You’d scream if you thought it would help. You’d cry if you hadn’t already.
He still doesn’t look at you.
Something slams shut behind you. You flinch, but the roots hold. A door—metal. Concrete. Your eyes find it. Rosendo. Just outside the bunker, gasping, wild-eyed. His hands shaking like he’s still trying to scrub off whatever he saw inside.
Then he sees Bryan.
And you see the fear twist across his face.
For a split second, his eyes meet yours. There’s recognition. Maybe even shame. But then his gaze flicks to Bryan—and panic takes over. You know that look. That oh-shit-it’s-too-late look. You’ve worn it yourself. You are probably wearing it right now.
Bryan takes a step forward. Calm. Certain. Like he’s been waiting for this moment longer than either of you can understand. Like he knew Rosendo would come back. Like the island told him.
You try one more time. Not because you think it’ll work, but because you don’t know how not to.
“Please…”
But your voice is barely a whisper. Your body is a knot of pain. And Bryan doesn’t even flinch.
His gaze never leaves Rosendo.
Something stirs behind the bunker door.
And all you can do is watch.
Bryan
You barely hear the begging.
Ian’s voice is a mosquito in the heat—whining, persistent, meaningless. You could shut him up with a twitch of your fingers, but why bother? He isn’t a threat. He’s a leftover. He’s already chosen his fate. And you?
You’ve chosen yours.
Your attention is fixed on Rosendo, just now bursting out of the bunker, wild-eyed and breathless. His clothes are torn. His hands tremble. He slams the door behind him like a man trying to trap a ghost. And then—he turns. Sees you.
You catch it immediately: that flicker of disbelief, of realization. The recognition is delicious.
He looks like he’s trying to calculate something. You let him. Let him weigh his odds. Let him think he still has agency. You don’t move. There’s no need to. Not yet.
You remember what it felt like to be on the other side of that door—locked out, discarded. Not even hated. Just… dismissed. Unimportant. You still hear the metal slamming. Not in your ears, but in your chest. That echo stuck with you longer than the fear did. It wasn’t the island that turned you. It was him. Rosendo, who looked at you and saw dead weight. Not worth saving.
He made his choice. So now it’s your turn.
You watch as he glances around—jungle, bunker, nowhere left to run. Then slowly, he opens the door again, slipping behind it like a child hiding behind a curtain.
Your lips part slightly. Not a smile, exactly—just the satisfaction of a script unfolding exactly as it should.
You step forward.
The ground welcomes you, soft and warm beneath your feet. The roots near Ian twitch—not attacking, not hunting. Just waiting for instruction.
You breathe, and the island hums.
It’s not metaphorical. It’s real. Vibrating in your bones. Filling the silence between heartbeats. You understand it now—this place. You used to think it was punishing you, testing you, trying to destroy you. But that wasn’t it. It rewards those who act. Who embrace it. Who stop pretending they’re still bound by rules that no longer apply.
You don’t survive this place by running. Or hiding. Or begging. You survive by becoming part of it.
Your gaze drifts to the door.
You can feel it. Not just see it—feel it. The weight. The way it holds itself together. The soft give of rust, the tension where the hinges cling to the frame. You could take it apart molecule by molecule if you wanted to.
You don’t need to touch it. You just have to want it.
It listens, if I ask.
The metal hums like your own blood.
And then—something stirs behind the door.
Not Rosendo. Something else.
You don’t flinch. Whatever it is, it’s not hostile. It isn’t rushing or snarling. It’s waiting. There’s a pressure in the air now—familiar, but not fully known. Like standing near someone you used to love but can’t name anymore.
You tilt your head.
Kindred.
The word arrives in your mind like a memory.
You feel it in the dark. Heavy. Ancient. A piece of the island given form. And it’s watching you.
You take one step closer to the door.
Let’s see what they’ve been hiding.
Mike
You move north through the jungle, one step at a time, like you’re learning how to walk again.
The ground is solid beneath your feet. The air is cold. No more warmth. No more voices. Just silence—the kind that feels like it’s watching you.
You’re not sure how long you were gone. Not unconscious—gone. Like the island peeled your mind apart and stitched it back together with whatever pieces it liked best. And now? Now you’re here. Awake.
But not whole.
There’s space where the whispers used to be. You thought silence would feel like relief. It doesn’t. It feels like standing in a burned house long after the fire’s out.
Booming in the distance again. The ground shivers beneath your steps—deep and distant, like a war being fought in the bones of the island. You don’t know what it means. You only know you missed it.
I woke up late, you think. Something already happened.
You keep going.
The vines hang low, slick and still. The trees don’t move. No birds. No bugs. Just you.
And a question that won’t let go:
Why you?
Why did it take your thoughts, your voice, your sense of time? Why did it make you kneel to things you couldn’t see—and then, when you’d stopped resisting, when you gave in—why did it let you go?
There’s no reason for mercy in a place like this. No forgiveness. So what was it?
A mistake?
Pity?
Or is this just another trick?
You duck beneath a fallen branch. Something in the back of your head itches, like pressure against bone. You pause.
A faint hum. Like a whisper trying to form a word—but it’s only the wind.
You keep walking.
You don’t want to be alone anymore.
That’s the clearest thing. You’ve been inside yourself for too long. You need others, even if they don’t recognize you. Even if they’re afraid.
Even if they’re right to be.
You reach the edge of the clearing and drop low, staying behind a wall of green. What you see stills your breath.
Bryan. Standing tall. Glowing faintly blue around the edges. He isn’t twitching or shouting or snarling. He’s still. Composed. At home in the moment. Like the island shaped him and said, This one.
To his side, Ian—twisted in black roots, shaking, helpless. On the other, Rosendo, half-concealed behind the open bunker door, trembling like a man trying to melt into the metal.
And Bryan, just watching them.
You grip a tree trunk, steady yourself. This doesn’t feel like returning. It feels like stumbling into a ritual already in progress.
You want to call out—but you don’t. Something holds you back. Something quiet.
Then: a sound. Low. Wet. Heavy.
You look toward the door. And you feel it before you see it.
Something inside.
A shape moving in the dark. Huge. Slow. Breathing.
The bunker exhales cold.
Bryan doesn’t move. He’s not afraid. He looks almost… expectant.
That chills you more than anything.
You squint into the shadows. Just outlines. Just hints. But it’s coming. And you know this much:
It’s not for coming for you.
It was waiting for Bryan.
Rosendo
You slam the door shut and stagger back, chest heaving, lungs raw. The world narrows around you. The clearing spins.
You saw things in there—you understood things in there. But there’s no time. Whatever was moving in the shadows of that bunker is still down there, and it’s not staying put.
You brace yourself against the concrete. The metal door hums behind you like it’s holding something back. You feel it in your bones.
As your eyes scan the clearing, they catch on Ian—entangled, terrified, and staring straight at you. For a brief second, your gazes lock. His expression says it all: better you than him.
And then—you see Bryan.
Standing in the clearing like a statue. Still. Centered.
You freeze. Your mouth opens, but no sound comes.
He’s different. It’s not just the way he stands—it’s the way the air seems to fold around him. The faint blue shimmer at the edges of his body, like the heat that lifts off asphalt in summer. But colder.
You remember the video from the lab. You remember what he did. He chose this. He gave himself to the island. And now the island wears him like a second skin.
Your heartbeat spikes. You scan the jungle. Too far. No cover. No escape. You glance at Bryan again. He hasn’t moved. He’s just watching you.
You make a decision—not brave, not noble, just logical.
You turn back to the bunker door and open it, just wide enough. The hinges groan. A rush of cold air spills out like breath from a grave. You slip behind it, crouch low, and press your back to the steel. The door between you and the thing inside. A shield. A gamble.
Let it go for Bryan. Let the island devour its chosen son.
Let it not be you.
For a moment, you think it’s going to work. There’s a pause—just enough for hope to stretch inside your chest.
Then you hear it.
A slow drag. A wet shift. A groan, deep and not human.
The creature emerges.
You peek around the edge of the door. And it’s worse than anything you imagined.
Black, leathery skin, tight over an oversized frame, seems to crack as it moves—like it hasn’t been allowed to stretch in years. Its arms are mismatched, one dragging at the ground, the other clutching close to its body. Blue veins glow beneath the surface, pulsing faintly with every breath.
Its face is half-human, but twisted, long-starved, almost confused by the light. There’s power in its bulk, in the way it moves. But also… exhaustion. It was locked away, too long. And now it’s free.
And it walks past you.
Toward Bryan.
Then—it kneels.
Not like a beast surrendering. Like a servant returning.
Bryan lowers his hand. Places it gently on the creature’s head. No words. Just… understanding.
Your breath catches.
This was supposed to be your move. Your plan. Let the monster take him out.
But it was never yours to use.
You stare at Bryan. You hated him, once. Or maybe you envied him. He was impulsive, reckless, and you thought that made him weak. You were wrong.
He made a choice. You just watched.
It would’ve been easier, you think, facing that thing with him. Together.
The thought lands soft in your chest. Too late.
Bryan turns. His face is calm. Almost kind.
He raises his hand.
The metal shivers. Then wrenches.
You feel it in the air first—a tug in your teeth, a pulse in your ribs—then a rush of force, like the sky collapsing inward.
The world tilts.
You don’t even see the door move towards you. You just feel the wind vanish, the light snap shut, and then—
Silence.
Email me your decisions at mike.hamilton2010@gmail.com
Ian’s Options
- Run. Just run: The roots have loosened, just enough. You can squirm free, push your aching limbs into motion, and vanish into the jungle before anyone decides you’re worth noticing.
- Step toward Bryan. Ask to join him: He spared you—didn’t even look at you, but still spared you. Maybe that means something. Maybe it’s your turn to pick a side.
- Flee into the bunker and seal the door behind you: You don’t know what else is down there, but it’s shelter—and you can control a door better than you can control people.
Bryan’s Options
- Offer Ian a place at your side: He survived. That has to mean something. You don’t need loyalty—you need usefulness, and Ian has always known when to keep his head down.
- Focus your power into the creature. Help it heal: It came to you broken, but it still knelt. Maybe it’s not just a weapon—it’s a part of you. A reflection. Make it whole.
- Enter the bunker. Alone. Finally: Rosendo hid the truth down there. The creature wasn’t the only thing waiting. It’s time to finish what he started—and see what the island has kept for you.
Mike’s Options
- Attack Bryan: You’ve seen enough. You don’t know what’s right anymore, but you know this—he killed Rosendo, and he’s next if you don’t stop him now.
- Sneak in to help Ian escape: He doesn’t deserve to be caught in the middle of this. You can’t change everything, but you can still do something.
- Stay hidden. Watch: You don’t know who you are in this anymore. If you move too soon, you’ll shatter whatever clarity you just got back.
Part 2: The Storm Inside
(Cowin, Boon, Jill, Jordanna & Andrew)
Cowin
You can’t hear yourself think over the storm, but the voices inside you don’t care.
They’re back. They came flooding in the moment the sand cracked and the sky opened. Jordanna raised her arms, and suddenly they were screaming. Not the storm—the voices. Inside your head. Slithering behind your thoughts.
Help her.
She knows what you are.
You could be strong again.
You press your hands to your ears, but it’s useless. They’re not coming from the outside. They’re inside you now. Deep. Rooted. And they’re louder than ever.
You clench your teeth and breathe through your nose like it’ll help. It doesn’t. Your body shakes with it. The power around you. The lightning above you. The ground beneath you. It’s all trying to tear itself apart. And you’re right in the middle of it.
A part of you wants to move. To stand up. To run at Jill. Not to hurt her—but because the voices say you need to. Because that’s what Jordanna wants. Because that’s what the island wants.
You bite your tongue until you taste blood.
You’re not going to do it.
But you don’t know how much longer you can resist.
Then Boon grabs you.
You barely register it at first. His hands under your arm, hauling you sideways through the sand. Then Andrew’s pulled in too, and suddenly you’re all tangled together, half-sitting, half-collapsed in a heap. Boon’s arms around you both, tight like he’s afraid you’ll get ripped away if he lets go.
You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.
You bury your face against Boon’s shoulder and let the storm scream for you.
He’s warm. Trembling, but solid. For a few seconds, it helps. It’s not peace—but it’s something.
Then the voices start again.
Softer this time. Less demanding. More patient.
She’s your friend. She understands. She knows what’s inside you.
She can help you control it.
You squeeze your eyes shut, but Jordanna’s face is already behind your eyelids. Blue light. Wild hair. That impossible smile. She looks beautiful and awful and unbreakable.
You hate her for it.
You hate yourself for how much of her you see in you.
And then you feel the pressure building—everywhere. In the sky. In your chest. In the sand beneath your knees. The island is holding its breath, and you don’t know what comes next.
You look up.
Jill is glowing red.
You don’t know what that means. You don’t know if she’s winning or losing or about to explode. She looks like something holy, something terrifying. The voices don’t say a word when you see her. They just go quiet.
You don’t know if that’s better or worse.
You cling tighter to Boon and Andrew and tell yourself to hold on.
Just a little longer.
You’re still you.
You’re still you.
Aren’t you?
Boon
You should just sink.
It would be easy. You’re already half-buried in the sand, ribs aching, head pounding. Your limbs don’t feel like they belong to you anymore. The storm above roars like it wants to pull the world apart, and the ground beneath you shudders like it’s trying to decide if it wants to be solid. You could let it take you. Just slip under. No more noise. No more island. Just quiet.
And God, the quiet sounds good.
But then Cowin gasps.
It’s sharp. Fragile. And too familiar.
You roll your head, neck stiff, and you see him—on his knees, clutching his skull, shaking. His breath comes in quick, shallow stabs. Beside him, Andrew’s nose is bleeding again. His hand twitches in the sand like something’s crawling just under his skin.
You see it in their faces. That hollow look. That not-quite-there stare. You saw it in Mayo. Just before she slipped and was gone.
That should be someone else’s problem. You’ve done enough. You survived the water. You came back from underneath. You should be allowed to rest.
But your body’s already moving.
Your arms scream in protest, but you dig your elbows into the sand and drag yourself toward them. You grab Cowin first—he resists at first, flinching like he’s about to strike. Then Andrew—dazed, limp, heavier than he looks. You haul them in close, your arms clumsy and slow, and pull them into the only kind of shield you have left: you.
They collapse against you like falling bricks. You wrap yourself around them and hold.
It’s not much. You have no power. No glowing light. No weapons.
Just skin. Bones. Breath.
And the desperate belief that being here might matter.
The world is ending above you. Jordanna screams, and the wind bends around her voice. Lightning splits the sky in shapes that don’t make sense. The beach shakes like something’s trying to surface. The sand burns cold against your back.
You press your forehead to Cowin’s and whisper nothing. No prayers. No comfort. Just stay.
They don’t speak. They barely breathe. But you can feel it—something slithering inside them, same as it did in Mayo. You’re holding them like she should’ve been held. Maybe if someone had… maybe she’d still be here.
You hold tighter.
If this is the end, at least they won’t go alone.
You feel them twitch. Both of them. Like something inside just snapped. The storm shrieks—and something warm brushes across your face. Not fire. Not wind. Golden light. Faint and soft.
You don’t look up. You don’t have to. Something’s happening out there—bigger than you, bigger than any of you—but for now, you just focus on keeping what’s left.
Your arms are numb. Your back is soaked. But they’re still breathing.
And so are you.
You didn’t sink.
You stayed.
Jill
You should be afraid.
The storm is ripping the sky in half. Jordanna stands twenty feet from you, hair whipping like fire, eyes glowing white-blue. Her arms are raised, fingers curled like claws as she weaves the air itself into weapons. Lightning spirals from her hands, coils through the clouds, crashes into the sand. Wind slashes sideways, dragging sheets of water in screaming arcs. The beach groans beneath it all.
But you don’t move.
You stand barefoot in the sand, arms out, palms open. The island breathes with you.
There’s light—sunlight—somehow still breaking through the chaos. The clouds spin above, a swirl of storm and flame, but the light punches through like it belongs here. It strikes the sand around your feet and rises with it as if the earth is answering the sky.
The storm wants to tear. The light wants to hold.
You listen to both.
And then you see them—Cowin, Andrew, Boon—huddled, shaking, barely staying upright. You can feel what’s inside them. The same crawling sickness you felt in the cave. Not from them. Not truly. But inside them, like vines wrapping too tight around something fragile. They’re breaking. Quietly. Almost invisibly.
You could end it.
You could turn toward Jordanna, gather everything inside you, and unleash it. The island would let you. The sand would rise, the light would sharpen, and she would fall.
But that’s not why you’re here.
You drop your arms to your sides, turn your palms toward the ground, and let the light build—not to strike, but to shield.
The sand around you lifts—slow, spiraling—not like Jordanna’s wind, but like breath held in a sacred space. It dances in the light, glows faint gold, and then rises like a dome, forming a barrier between you and the storm.
You pour yourself into it. You open wide.
The light spills outward, not in a blast, but in a rising warmth that flows like water over stone. You aim it at them—at Cowin, at Andrew. You watch their bodies tense, flinch, then ease. You feel the rot lift from their lungs. You feel something release, something not quite theirs, something that didn’t belong.
And in that moment, it feels so good.
Like sunlight pressing against skin after cold. Like truth whispered after silence. This is what you’re meant to do.
The dome hardens. The light holds. And you look up.
Jordanna’s still there. Still alive. Still crackling.
You know the moment’s passed. You could’ve struck her. You chose not to.
And she knows it too.
Your knees are shaking now. The light is fading. The sand settles around your feet like ash after a fire. But you don’t regret it.
You didn’t stop Jordanna.
But you saved them.
And in the distance, the island shifts again—like it’s waiting to see what you’ll choose next.
Jordanna
You are the storm.
It doesn’t just follow your command—it is you. The air moves with your breath. Lightning bends at your fingertips. The clouds twist in time with your pulse. When you scream, the wind howls back, matching pitch. You raise your arms and the sky tears open.
You feel limitless.
And yet you feel like you’re being peeled apart.
There’s too much inside you. The power is thick and wrong—delicious, but swollen, like something meant for a bigger body. Your skin hums like it’s holding back a tide. Every motion is a chorus of ecstasy and nausea.
You could end her now.
Jill.
She stands across from you, framed in light and rising sand, arms lifted—not to strike, but to shield. She glows red at first. Then gold. It makes your vision throb. You can taste metal on your tongue.
The voice hisses from behind your eyes.
She defies us. Burn her down.
You lift your hand again.
And then you stop.
Because Jill isn’t fighting.
She’s not flinching. Not striking. She’s turning away from you.
She’s protecting them—Cowin, Andrew, Boon. You see Boon pulling them close, wrapping himself around them like he’s made of steel, not skin. You see Cowin’s face twisted in something beyond pain. You see Andrew twitching like there’s something inside him trying to get out.
And in your chest—where the voice should be shouting—there’s something else. Something warm.
It’s small. Weak. Stupid.
Gladness.
You feel glad she’s taking care of them.
You hate that you feel it. You love that you feel it. You don’t understand it, but it’s yours. It’s finally yours.
The voice surges again. Furious. Distant.
We gave you this. You will finish it.
You raise your hands anyway—but not toward Jill.
You turn your palms to the sky.
Lightning bursts free and vanishes into the clouds. You pull the wind tighter, stretch the storm like fabric on a loom. You give it everything, just to see what it feels like to push yourself to the edge.
And it’s glorious.
And it’s awful.
Your stomach turns. Your limbs ache. Your vision fractures. The sky pulses with your heartbeat and it’s too much.
You remember Lauren. Her eyes, inches from yours on the deck. The moment she could have killed you. Chose not to. Stayed with Sara M. until she didn’t. Until she faded.
You wonder what it would feel like to fade.
You lower your arms.
The clouds don’t vanish—but they loosen. The wind eases. The lightning dims. The storm becomes a storm again.
The voice snarls once more—sharp, ugly—but you don’t listen. You smile.
Not because you won.
But because this was your choice.
And then, for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel the power drain from your body—like stepping out of armor made of fire. It leaves you shaky, trembling, exposed.
But you’re still you.
And what floods in to fill that space isn’t fear, or shame, or the voice.
It’s relief.
Cool and quiet and real.
You close your eyes and let yourself feel it.
Andrew
You blink. Once. Twice. The buzzing is gone.
No more static. No more whispering. No more feeling like your bloodstream was full of insects. You’re still curled in the sand, half-crushed between Boon and Cowin, and your face is numb. But your mind?
Clear.
For the first time since the ship went down, you’re actually alone inside your own head. And you know why.
It wasn’t you.
Jill.
You don’t have to see her to know it. There’s a warmth hanging around your bones—not heat, exactly, but a kind of presence. Like she left something behind when she pulled the bad stuff out. Like she cared about what she was cleaning.
You should feel grateful. You do. You just also feel wrecked. Your body’s buzzing in a new way now—post-panic, post-pain, post-possession. You lie there in the sand and let yourself feel human again, one breath at a time.
Then your eyes wander upward.
The storm is dying. The wind fades, the clouds drift, the lightning sulks off to pout in the distance.
And Jordanna is still standing.
The glow around her is dim now, just a soft shimmer across her skin. Her arms hang at her sides. Her hair is stuck to her cheeks in wet strands. She looks exhausted, but not broken.
She lifts her head—and somehow, impossibly—locks eyes with you.
You freeze.
She smiles. It’s not manic. Not triumphant. It’s not “I just won” or “you’re next.” It’s thank you, or maybe I’m okay now. It’s quiet and real and a little bit heartbreaking.
You feel it in your chest. That weird, hot sting that always shows up right before you do something emotional and embarrassing. Like… care.
So you smile back.
And then the sand detonates.
It doesn’t crack. It ruptures. Like something had been waiting beneath her. And it had decided—now.
Hands.
Black, dripping, unnatural. Hundreds of them. Writhing up from the earth like fingers from a nightmare. They grab her—arms, legs, waist, throat. There’s no pause, no hesitation. They yank.
Hard.
Jordanna’s eyes don’t widen. She doesn’t scream. She just keeps looking at you.
And she smiles again.
Then she’s gone.
Just… gone.
The sand smooths over like she was never there.
Everything else collapses.
Cowin shouts—high and raw. Boon scrambles backward, fists up, breathing hard. Jill’s voice is sharp, trying to count heads, trying to make sense of it. You’re all frozen in a moment that will never come out of your bodies.
You feel it settle in your bones.
That wasn’t death. That was a collection.
The island took her back.
You push yourself up on one elbow. The others are shaking, gasping, pale. No one asks what just happened. No one needs to.
Because you all saw it.
And none of you will ever unsee it.
Some time later…
You’re walking through the jungle.
The path is slippery and wrong. Nothing feels straight. Vines loop like they’re watching you. The trees drip like they’re sweating something unnatural.
Boon limps behind Jill. Cowin walks stiff, arms tight to his sides. You trail the rear, mostly because you’re not ready to look anyone in the eye yet.
Jill stops.
She turns slowly, scanning the trees, tilting her head like she’s listening to something that isn’t there.
“We’re close,” she says. “The battle cry… it came from just ahead. A few more minutes.”
That should be the end of it.
But then—boom.
Not thunder. Not like before. This is worse.
A supersonic rupture from the left. Trees shake. Your teeth rattle. The birds lose their minds. The air goes still again too fast, like it’s covering something up.
Boon flinches. Cowin swears under his breath.
But Jill’s not looking left.
She’s turned fully to the right.
Her face is pale. Focused.
“There,” she says, voice quiet. “Something just woke up.”
She doesn’t say what.
She doesn’t have to.
You believe her.
Email me your decisions at mike.hamilton2010@gmail.com
Cowin, Boon, Jill & Andrew’s Options:
- Head Toward the Scream: The original battle cry is still echoing faintly in Jill’s mind, and it’s coming from just up ahead. Following it could lead them to the source of the earlier horror, or someone still alive. But it may also mean encountering whatever made her scream in the first place.
- Investigate the Supersonic Boom: The massive explosion that shook the forest came from the left, distant but powerful. It could be a clash between other survivors—or something far worse. Whatever caused it is dangerous, and not trying to be subtle.
- Confront the Darkness Awakening: Jill senses something ancient and evil awakening to the right. It isn’t calling out—it’s waiting. This path feels like walking into a trap, but it may also hold the source of the corruption that has infected the island from the beginning.
Part 3: Rebirth
(Graham, Tyfanna, Mayoli & Peter)
Graham
You don’t move. The stillness in the chamber isn’t just silence—it’s expectant. As if the stone itself is watching. You feel Mayoli beside you. Her presence is steady. Reassuring. Tyfanna, a few feet away, remains quiet—too quiet. That calm, too-perfect look on her face hasn’t changed since you found her standing outside the lighthouse. It’s wrong.
You glance at the altar again. The figures embedded in its black stone frame are locked in mid-motion—some screaming, some kneeling, some reaching skyward in worship. You squint, scanning the faces. None are familiar, but that only makes it worse. They could have been anyone. Survivors. Losers. Converts.
You feel the urge to approach, but something deep inside your gut pulls back. The kind of warning you’ve learned not to ignore. Whatever answers the altar holds, they come at a cost. You’re not ready to pay it.
Instead, your eyes drop to the floor.
Crude etchings on the floor stretch out from the base of the altar like veins, winding and interlocking. The longer you look, the more deliberate they appear. Not ritualistic. Not decorative. Mapped.
You brush away grit and fungus with the edge of your hand. A shape emerges beneath the dust: a tree, limbs twisted, wild, familiar. You’ve seen it before—in the void, a tree of blood. Your pulse quickens.
More shapes follow. A waterfall, curved like a crescent blade, with fine red grooves outlining its path. Then: an underground oasis, shaded with dark finger-smudged staining, and finally, a structure of tangled branches—crooked, unnatural, its opening a jagged mouth that could swallow you whole.
They’ve all been carved and filled with blood.
You pull your hand back slowly. It’s dry. Flaked. But it’s not old. Days maybe. Someone bled to mark these. Someone wanted others to know what mattered. Or what didn’t.
You shift your attention to the other side of the floor.
A faint blue glow catches your eye. Not light. More like a presence—embedded in the carvings themselves. You lean in. The style is different. Still careful, but colder. Mechanical.
A crater, surrounded by thin, sharp scoring. Then: a domed cavern, ringed with crystals. Below that, an engine—its gears and belts intricately etched, almost vibrating with obsessive detail. And then, at the end of the trail, the lighthouse.
Your stomach clenches.
The difference is immediate. Blood for some. Fungus for others. There’s no legend, no key, but it doesn’t matter. You feel the division. One set speaks of refuge. The other—contamination.
This isn’t just a record. It’s a code of survival.
And in between the red and blue smeared carvings…
A door. That’s the key, you know it.
You scan the blue again. From the lighthouse carving, a narrow trail of blue fungus stretches outward—threading across the stone in a curved path. It slinks toward the far wall, disappearing upward, almost too faint to see.
Your eyes track it, but you don’t follow.
You stay where you are, hunched over the markings, piecing together a puzzle you didn’t know existed until now. Your mind kicks into overdrive—where does the blood stop, where does the blue begin? Do these shapes correspond to the ones you saw in the void? Or on the shoreline? Is this a warning left behind—or an invitation?
You feel the pull to understand. Not to act—just to know. If there’s a way out, it starts here. You can feel it.
Mayoli is somewhere behind you. Tyfanna too. But you tune them out. You need to see this through. You’re close. You’re sure of it.
This? This is something you can solve.
Mayoli
You keep your distance.
Graham is crouched near the floor, hunched like he’s solving a crime scene. You want to ask what he sees, but you already know the answer will be unfinished. Incomplete. Because he’s trying to make sense of the markings while ignoring what’s in front of him.
You can’t.
The altar dominates the room. Not just in size—presence. The air around it feels wrong. Thicker. Like you shouldn’t be breathing it. You glance at the frozen figures. There’s too many to count, too much detail in their faces. They aren’t carved. They’re preserved. Mid-scream. Mid-kneel. Mid-fade.
It’s not just eerie. It’s intimate.
You look away. Your chest tightens, and you’re not sure why. Then you see it—Tyfanna. She hasn’t moved. Not yet. But her eyes are locked on the altar.
You glance at Graham again. He’s still tracing the carvings like they hold some secret no one else can see. Maybe they do. You trust his instincts—more than you’d admit—but sometimes he gets so caught up in the puzzle that he forgets to feel the room. To read the temperature. He doesn’t see what you see.
You return your attention to the floor, to what he was following before. The blue trail. Fungus, faint and pulsing, stretching out from the lighthouse carving. He followed it halfway. You follow it the rest.
It climbs the wall, a lazy spiral like something grown instead of built. At first it looks like it leads to nothing. Then you shift your angle, and see it—a lever. Old, rusting, barely visible through the growth, but unmistakable. Not decoration. A mechanism.
You don’t touch it. You don’t even move toward it. But you memorize the distance, the height, the feel of the air around it. It could matter.
And you might be the only one still paying attention.
You scan the room again, and that’s when you see it.
Tyfanna moves.
Not fast. Not sudden. Just… steady. She walks toward the altar like she’s walking into a place that’s waited for her. Her steps are quiet, unhurried. Her expression is soft. Peaceful. That makes it worse.
You feel it before you understand it—this is goodbye.
“Tyfanna,” you say. Just her name. Not a command. A hope.
She doesn’t hear you. Or maybe she does and doesn’t care.
She stops in front of the altar. Her eyes roam over the frozen figures, each one twisted in a different final moment. You wonder if she sees someone she recognizes. Someone she misses.
Then she lifts her hand.
You want to stop her. You should. But your legs don’t move. Because deep down, you know what this is. She’s not being taken. She’s choosing.
Your throat tightens.
She’s inches from touching the altar.
And you can only watch.
Tyfanna
You step forward, and the silence welcomes you.
It’s soft here. Thick, but not heavy. Like warm fog settling in your lungs. The blue glow on the walls pulses gently with your footsteps, as if the chamber breathes with you. The spores spiral upward in faint patterns, like vines reaching for a sun you can’t see. You don’t flinch. You don’t fear. You recognize it.
This place is not strange.
It’s familiar.
The silence in your head is still holding, but you know better now. The voices didn’t leave. They simply stepped back. They’re still there—quiet, coiled, watching. Like a breath being held. They didn’t vanish when you defied them. They just waited.
Waited for you to stop fighting.
And maybe… you have.
Graham kneels by the floor, hunched over those intricate carvings like he’s digging for a lifeline. Mayoli stands a few steps behind, alert, wary. Still whole.
Neither of them hears what you’ve heard.
Neither of them has had to feel their mind being chewed from the inside. They haven’t woken up in someone else’s body, hands twitching with commands that weren’t their own. They’ve seen the island. But you’ve felt it.
They’re lucky.
And they can still make it.
You could hate them for that, but you don’t. You’re just… glad. Genuinely. Let them survive. Let them carry something forward. Let someone remember who you were before all this.
You look to the altar, and it’s not frightening. Not anymore.
The figures locked inside are no longer strange. You see them clearly now. Not just their poses or their frozen faces—but the weariness beneath them. These aren’t people who were dragged into stone. They stepped into it. Like you.
You walk forward.
The hum from the altar deepens as you approach, as though it’s reacting to your nearness. Not a sound. A feeling. The same thrum that’s been hiding beneath your skin since the whispers first began.
You stop just short. Close enough to feel its warmth—or is it cold? The line is thin now. Everything is.
Your hand itches. Not from pain. Not from pressure. Just… from the need to finish something.
You look at the blue glow on the walls. You’ve always been drawn to it. Even when you tried to resist. It made sense. It felt right, even when it terrified you.
The altar is just an extension of that.
A homecoming.
You glance back, one last time. Mayoli seems to have found a lever in the wall. Good. Maybe they can find a way out of this. Graham is still working. They don’t know what you’re about to do.
They don’t need to.
This moment belongs to you.
You turn to the altar. One of the frozen figures draws your eye. A man, half-sunk in the black stone, his eyes shut, his face serene.
You don’t know him. But you know what he is.
Like you.
Your fingers reach out.
Not to give in. Not even to surrender.
But to rest.
You’re not afraid. You’re not empty. You’re just done.
You press your hand to the altar.
It welcomes you.
The noise in your head dissolves, not with violence, but with softness. Thoughts unravel gently. You drift inside yourself, and it’s quiet there. Not hollow—just still.
Your heart slows.
You’re not being erased. You’re being held.
You think of Paul. Of the moment the voices first took root. You wonder if this was always the ending waiting for you. Maybe. Maybe not.
But it’s yours.
And then—
A stone hand moves.
It slides from the altar, slow and steady, fingers outstretched.
It finds your arm.
Closes.
Not to take.
To bring you in.
You don’t resist.
You exhale.
And finally—
you are still.
Peter
You killed it because it was broken.
Not out of hate. Not out of fear. But because the island needed you to see what must be done when something fails to become what it was meant to be. You were shown rot. You answered with fire.
It wasn’t murder. It was mercy.
And it was proof.
You’re not just a survivor. You’re the solution. The savior. The island speaks in hunger and vision, and you’ve finally learned to listen. Destruction is not cruelty here. It’s devotion. It’s how you protect something holy.
And so, you wait.
You are somewhere. You are something. You don’t know where you end or begin. There’s no breath. No sound. No time. Just stillness.
You cannot move.
You cannot see.
But you can feel.
You are held in something cold and thick — stone, maybe. Earth. The altar. You don’t know. You only know that you are not alone. That something placed you here. That you are not dead. Not yet.
Then — a shift.
Not around you. Not inside you.
Through you.
Like a sigh from the mountain. Like a single word spoken in a language older than language. A presence brushes against you — not with touch, but with meaning. Something has arrived.
Someone.
The warmth of her thoughts brushes yours, soft and fractured. You don’t see her. You don’t know her name. But you know why she’s here.
She gives herself freely.
She finishes the circle.
Your hand stirs.
The stone around you begins to crack — not loudly, not violently. But reverently. As if the altar itself knows what is being born. Your fingers move. Your arm follows. You reach.
And when you touch her — when your hand closes around her arm — you thank her. Not in words. In stillness.
You’ve never met.
But she’s your family now. Forever.
You step out of the stone.
The blue light on the walls burns your eyes. You haven’t seen in so long, and now everything is too much — too bright, too beautiful. You blink against the glow, but you don’t look away. This is the world reborn. Your world.
Behind you, the stone absorbs her. She rises without effort, without pain. She becomes still. A final sigh held in a smile. She’s not being taken. She’s being lifted.
You watch her vanish into black marble and soft blue veins. You offer no words. Only silence.
Then you turn.
Two figures stand in the chamber.
The man — you’ve never seen him before, but the look in his eyes tells you everything. He sees you as wrong. As danger. He will be a problem.
The woman — you remember her. From the beginning. Her face carries sorrow now. She sees what’s happening, but not why.
That doesn’t matter.
They’ve been given a chance to survive. Whether they take it is their burden.
You step forward.
Something inside you is changing — growing. A warmth in your chest, your arms, your teeth. Not power. Potential. And with it, a message unspoken:
This was not a gift.
This is a test.
To be chosen is not enough.
You must prove you were worth it.
Email me your decisions at mike.hamilton2010@gmail.com
Graham & Mayoli’s Options:
- Run past Peter and escape through the lighthouse entrance: You trust your instincts and decide not to take any chances. Whatever Peter is now, you don’t want to be near it — not for a second longer.
- Pull the hidden lever and hope it leads to an escape route: The markings on the floor hinted at a secret. The lever may lead somewhere safer — or somewhere worse. But it’s a plan, and right now, that’s better than nothing.
- Speak with Peter and try to ensure your safety: You approach Peter with caution. He hasn’t attacked — not yet — and maybe reasoning with him is possible. Maybe he’s still… someone. Or maybe it’s already too late.
Peter’s Options:
- Grab Graham or Mayoli and attempt to convert them to your cause: You are the chosen one now — and they need to see it. Whether through force, persuasion, or something more… metaphysical, you’ll try to make them understand the purpose you serve.
- Leave them be and exit the lighthouse: Your rebirth is complete, and your mission lies elsewhere. They are not your concern unless they choose to be. The island awaits.
- Leave them be and ascend to the top of the lighthouse: The chamber below gave you life — but the view from above might give you perspective. It may complete your rebirth.
- Attempt to wake more figures from the altar: Tyfanna brought you back. Perhaps others could follow. If the island needs soldiers, vessels, or believers, maybe you can raise them — and begin your true work.
Part 4: The Last Stand
(Mayo, Claudia, Jim, Travis, Jordan, Chris, Andrea & Chelsea)
Mayo
You can’t breathe.
Not because of the run. Not because of the cold, or the fear, or the way the mist clings to your skin. You can’t breathe because the voices are inside you again—and they’re screaming.
“Help them,” they hiss, too many to count, overlapping and buzzing like flies around your ears. “They need you. Your brothers. Your blood. Don’t let them fall.”
You know who they mean.
Up above, the blue figures shine like gods—Chris, radiating electric madness, and Jordan, pulsing with cold, obedient power. The light from them crackles and flashes like a second storm in the sky.
They’re winning.
You want to move. You want to run to Claudia. You want to jump into the glowing water and let it wash everything away. But your legs won’t work. Your chest won’t rise. You’re frozen, anchored by something deeper than fear.
The voices don’t plead anymore.
They command.
“Stop them.”
“Destroy them.”
“Be what you were made to be.”
Something shifts in your veins. Cold and sharp, a flicker of blue light pulses beneath your skin, and your knees buckle. Your hands twitch. Your mouth opens against your will. You feel your body turning—not fully, not yet—but like it’s remembering something terrible.
You hear yourself whisper, “They’re the good ones.”
And maybe they are.
Maybe it would be easier to let go. To follow the cold and let the voices carry you where they want.
You’d never have to think again. Never have to feel.
But then—Claudia.
You see her. She’s not running away. She’s running toward you, eyes wide with panic, golden light trailing off her soaked clothes like mist.
She’s calling your name. Desperately.
And suddenly, you remember.
Not everything. Just enough.
Her hands in your hair when you were crying. The sound of her laugh in a sunlit kitchen. The way she said your name like it meant something.
That memory strikes louder than any voice in your head.
“No,” you whisper, this time from yourself. Your lips crack as the word escapes. Your body flinches, recoils. The voices screech.
They tell you you’ll die. That Claudia will betray you. That Jim is already lost.
But you don’t care.
You’re done.
Done listening.
Done obeying.
Done being theirs.
Above, the lightning flashes again. The sky is splitting open. Chris and Jordan are closing in on the red figure, and the jungle is alive with blue-glowing beasts, crawling closer like death made flesh.
But you don’t look at them.
You look at the water.
At the light.
At hope.
And you take a step.
One.
Forward.
It hurts. Everything hurts. The voices scream louder, like they’re being torn from your body. Your eyes water, your lungs ache, your fingers twitch.
But you do it.
You take another step.
Claudia
The water holds you like a memory.
Warmth pulses through your chest, melting the chill from your bones, unraveling days of fear and fatigue.
But you can’t relax. You already saw her. Frozen at the edge.
You were too late to pull her in. But not too late to go back.
You break the surface, breath ragged, and twist toward the shore.
Mayo is still there—quivering, flickering blue, watching them.
Your pulse spikes.
You whip your head up—and the world explodes in chaos.
Chris and Jordan, cloaked in electric fury, tower at the top of the waterfall. Andrea is on her knees before them, red light fading from her frame. And worse—the jungle moves. Dozens of shapes slink through the mist, low to the ground, glowing with that same unnatural blue.
You know what they are.
You’ve seen what they do.
And your sister is right in the middle of it.
“¡Mayo!” you scream, pushing through the water. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move.
Her lips part, whispering something you can’t hear.
You see her trembling. You see her hurting. And still—she doesn’t run.
You reach the edge of the pool.
You don’t think.
You move.
Your feet slam onto the stone, slick and wet, but you don’t fall. Your legs burn, your lungs ache, but none of it matters. The only thing that matters is your sister.
The corrupted light above pulses like a second sun, but you don’t look at it. You look at her.
She’s still standing. Still not lost. Not yet.
“Estoy aquí,” you whisper, running faster now. “No te voy a dejar.”
She hears you.
Her head twitches. Her eyes blink. You see the shimmer of tears.
And then—she takes a step.
Your chest seizes.
It’s small. Almost nothing. But you see it.
You reach her. Your hands grab her arms. She flinches like she’s been struck, her body resisting, trembling. But her eyes meet yours—and they’re clearer.
She’s fighting.
You hold her tighter.
“It’s okay,” you murmur, even as your hands shake. “Ya casi.”
Behind you, the water calls.
Above you, the sky splits with light.
Around you, the jungle growls.
But right now, in this breathless second, it’s just the two of you.
Jim
You feel like fire.
Not the burning kind—the kind that hums beneath your skin, steady and hot, like molten metal flowing through your veins. The pool didn’t just heal you. It changed you. Strength pulses in your arms. Your breath feels endless. You are weightless and alive.
And for a second, you wonder what it would feel like to use this power.
Your gaze lifts.
Above the waterfall, Chris stands with lightning in his fists. Jordan is beside him, pulsing with a colder light. The powerful woman slumps at their feet, her golden glow faltering. The air up there crackles, so loud it hums in your bones. You could go. You could climb, join the fight, test yourself against whatever they’ve become.
But then—movement.
Claudia bursts from the water, scrambling for the edge.
Your heart stutters.
She’s going back for Mayo.
And suddenly, that burning in your chest isn’t power—it’s shame.
You wouldn’t even be standing here if it weren’t for them.
For her.
For the way Claudia believed you could still be saved.
For the way Mayo needs someone to believe it, too.
You follow.
Your body moves without hesitation, bare feet slapping the stone as you haul yourself out of the pool. The air hits you like ice, but it doesn’t matter. All you see is Mayo—trembling, flickering with light that shouldn’t be there—and Claudia grabbing her like she’s trying to keep her from falling off a cliff.
You reach them.
Claudia looks at you—just once—and you understand what needs to happen.
You grab Mayo’s other arm. Her body thrashes, like it’s not hers anymore. Her veins flash with blue, and her jaw clenches like she’s about to scream. But her eyes—God, her eyes—lock onto yours.
They’re pleading.
Not with fear.
With hope.
That’s all you need.
You grip tighter. Claudia nods. And all three of you move—
A single pull.
One motion.
And then you’re falling.
The golden light surges up to meet you, wrapping around all three of you like a heartbeat.
And just before you vanish beneath the surface, you see him.
In the brush at the jungle’s edge, hunched low on all fours—Travis.
Or what’s left of him.
His skin is blackening, stretched. His eyes glow the same sickly blue as the others. He watches you not with hatred, but hunger.
He’s not Travis anymore.
You want to call out. To stop. To go back.
But it’s too late.
The water takes you.
And all you can do is mourn what you didn’t save.
Travis
The jungle breathes with you.
Every step, every breath, every twitch of muscle is matched by the others. You are many. You are one. You are pack.
The ground is slick beneath your hands, but your fingers curl into the dirt like they were born for it. Movement is easy now—low, fast, efficient. The hunger gnaws at your insides. It’s not pain. It’s purpose.
“We hunt,” someone growls beside you. Another one laughs, low and wet.
“The red one is waiting,” another purrs. “We’ll tear the glow out of her.”
You don’t speak. You don’t need to. You just move.
But your eyes flick sideways—down the ridge.
There, glowing gold in the pool below—him.
Jim.
The name is like a whisper through static. A thread you shouldn’t pull. But you do.
You remember his hand on your shoulder. His voice telling you it was going to be okay. The way he stood between you and the darkness in the cave. He stayed with you. He tried.
He really tried.
Your pace slows.
Someone notices. “What’s wrong with you?” a packmate hisses, crawling closer. “He glows wrong. Burn him.”
“No,” you growl—too quiet to be a challenge. Just a sound. A ripple.
You don’t want to hurt him. You can’t.
But the others don’t stop. They press forward, eager now, eyes fixed on the crumbling red light at the top of the waterfall.
The glowing figure.
You don’t know her name. You don’t think you ever did. But something about her makes your skin crawl and hum all at once. She glows differently—hotter, deeper. Defiant.
You climb.
The pack flows over rocks and branches like smoke, silent and sure. Your limbs stretch farther than they used to. Your hands aren’t quite hands anymore. You feel the sharp curve of claws when you dig into the wet stone.
At the top, the battlefield unfolds.
Chris is laughing—loud and triumphant. The memory of him is faint, but familiar. Like a name you forgot to forget. He glows with lightning now, standing beside another figure wrapped in cold blue. They are winning. The red one is on her knees, pulsing like a dying star.
She looks small.
But you hesitate.
Something in you knows she isn’t done.
The pack fans out behind the glowing blue figures, surrounding the edge, breath misting in the cold air. They shift in anticipation, low to the ground, every muscle coiled.
You crouch among them, but your eyes drift down again—toward the pool.
Jim is still there.
And he’s not alone. Two women beside him, small and shaking. You don’t know who they are, but the sight of them twists something inside you.
You could have been there.
You should have been.
But you didn’t run.
You stayed.
You chose.
That part of you—the part that remembers—starts to flicker again. Like a match in a storm.
You squeeze your eyes shut.
No. Not now. The pack is ready. The Master is watching.
The red one still burns.
You wait to see what the big blue man will do.
And when he moves—
So will you.
Jordan
Andrea is still breathing.
Barely. Her red glow pulses like a dying ember, weak and slow, flickering with every breath. She’s crumpled on the stone like something broken, and Chris stands over her with fire in his hands, grinning like he’s already won.
You should feel something.
Relief. Triumph. Fear. Anything.
But there’s just… silence inside.
Then the jungle rustles.
You turn your head. The shadows move—low to the ground, crawling like smoke. Twenty, maybe more. Glowing with the same cold blue that hums beneath your skin.
They’re monstrous—elongated limbs, stretched bodies, inhuman eyes. You know you should be afraid. You know these things aren’t right.
But you aren’t afraid.
Your heart doesn’t skip. Your hands don’t shake.
If anything, they feel like reinforcements.
They slink in behind you and Chris, forming a loose ring around Andrea’s fallen body. Chris glances at them, smirks. You think you hear him mutter something like “whatever works.”
And still, you don’t move.
You watch Andrea.
Even now, even broken, she hasn’t begged. Hasn’t cried. She lies there, the waterfall pulsing behind her, and she just stares at Chris with something like… pity.
You swallow hard.
You remember wanting to help her.
Not that long ago, you saw her slipping—losing herself to the island, to the pool, to whatever power lived here—and you thought maybe you could pull her back.
But she didn’t need you.
She found herself.
And you?
You lost yourself in the same breath.
The truth sinks in like a weight on your chest. She’s the one who remembered who she was. You’re the one who let go.
You look down at your hands. They still shimmer with that soft, blue light. Still tingle with power.
It felt good, once. Like purpose. Like control.
Now it just feels… foreign.
But it’s too late.
Chris steps forward again, energy building in his arms, wild and crackling. You know what’s coming. You’re supposed to back him up. You’re his second strike. His shadow.
You breathe in.
Feel the power ready itself inside you.
It answers you easily now. No resistance. No hesitation.
You glance at Andrea one last time.
She looks at you.
And even now—half-dead, cornered, abandoned—she still sees you.
It burns worse than any power ever has.
But you can’t stop. You’ve already chosen this.
Or maybe you just stopped choosing.
So you look away.
You tighten your fists.
And you wait for the order.
Chris
This is what it’s all been for.
The blood. The noise. The nights shaking in the dark, fists clenched around nothing. The weight of other people. Their weakness. Their hope. Their waiting for someone to save them.
Well—someone did.
You.
You saved them by becoming something they couldn’t. You stopped caring. You stopped questioning. You rose.
And now, here you are.
Andrea lies at your feet, red light flickering like a candle in the rain. Her arms are limp, her glow is fading, and her time is up.
Jordan stands to your right, silent and solid, your sword made flesh. You barely need to speak anymore—he gets it.
And behind you, the jungle has delivered an audience.
The pack slinks into view, half-shadow and blue fire, jaws low, breath thick. They circle in a wide arc—twenty strong. Silent. Watching.
You almost laugh.
One of them moves differently. You squint, lean forward.
That gait. That shape.
Travis.
Or… what’s left of him.
“Whatever works,” you say under your breath, smiling.
You get it. Everyone folds eventually. Some faster than others.
But Travis still found his way back. Like a dog returning home. Good enough.
You turn back to Andrea.
She hasn’t moved.
She doesn’t beg. Doesn’t speak.
You crouch beside her and shake your head slowly.
“You could’ve had all of this,” you say. “We could’ve run it together.”
She says nothing. Her breathing is shallow. Her red light pulses, but it’s dying.
You rise again.
It’s fine. She chose wrong.
And now she gets to watch what choosing right looks like.
You raise your arms. Electricity coils along your fingertips. Blue fire arches between your palms. The power flows easy now—too easy.
The island isn’t resisting. It’s welcoming you.
It knows.
You are what it was waiting for.
Not a protector. Not a servant.
A king.
Jordan glances at you. You don’t have to look at him to know he’s ready.
He’s like lightning in a bottle, just waiting for you to give the nod.
And the pack?
Oh, they feel it too.
The jungle is silent. Even the wind has stopped. The waterfall pulses behind you, but everything else has paused. Like the whole island is holding its breath for this moment.
This is your coronation.
And damn, it feels good.
You think about the first day on the island. That wet, shivering fear. The uselessness. The noise of other people’s panic.
You could’ve died back then. Could’ve disappeared like the others.
But you didn’t.
You stood up.
You clawed your way forward.
You took what no one else had the guts to take.
Now you command the storm.
You look down at Andrea one last time.
Her eyes are open.
Still watching. Still that same unreadable look.
You respect her. In a way.
She never bowed. That made her interesting.
But even the strongest fall.
And she’s no different.
“Say goodbye, princess,” you whisper.
Then you close your eyes and draw in the island like breath.
The energy rushes into you, flooding your limbs, curling around your ribs, pouring behind your eyes until all you see is light. The crackle becomes a roar, the heat unbearable. You spread your arms wider, chest open to the sky.
You don’t just feel powerful.
You feel infinite.
This is it.
The moment they remember.
The moment everything changes.
The moment you finish it.
And as the blast builds inside you—unstoppable, righteous, divine—
You smile.
Let her see it.
Let them all see it.
Andrea
You can barely feel your body.
The ground beneath you is slick with mist and blood, your limbs heavy with something colder than exhaustion. Every breath is a labor. Every blink, a small defiance. Your red light flickers softly against the stone like a candle holding out against a storm.
Above you, he’s laughing.
Chris.
You don’t need to look to know what he’s doing—how wide he’s smiling, how high he’s holding his arms. He thinks he’s already won. He thinks you’re done.
Maybe you are.
But you’re not afraid. Not anymore.
The waterfall roars behind you like a heartbeat, its pulse steady and warm in your spine. You can feel the island still beneath it all—not silent, not asleep, just… waiting.
You close your eyes.
It’s funny. When you first came to this place, you thought it was a curse. A maze. A test.
You didn’t know what you were supposed to be.
But you found it.
Not through power.
Through presence.
You stayed.
You listened.
You fought.
And the island answered. Not with words—but with a kind of recognition. You were never its master. Never its champion.
You were its guardian.
And this?
This is what guardians do.
You inhale slowly. Pain threads through your ribs like fire, but you gather it. Cradle it. Let it feed the light still inside you.
You open your eyes.
Chris is standing tall now, arms spread wide, lightning cracking around him like a crown. Jordan at his side. The pack behind him. They’re all watching. Waiting. Worshiping.
You almost feel sorry for him.
Once, there must have been something good in him. Someone who wanted to keep people safe. But the island didn’t take that from him.
He gave it away.
You press your hands to the stone and push. Your body screams in protest, but you rise. One knee. Then the other. Not tall. Not proud.
Just… present.
Your red glow flares again—weak, but there. A defiant ember in a sea of blue.
Chris sees it.
And his grin fades just slightly.
Good.
He raises his arms higher. His voice is lost in the roar of power surging through him. The sky above churns, light bending around him like he’s tearing the world in half.
But the island doesn’t belong to him.
It never did.
You reach inward. Not to your strength—it’s gone. Not to your rage—it never led you anywhere good.
You reach to the roots beneath the rock, to the veins in the waterfall, to the pulse of the pool below.
They respond.
Not in force—but in trust.
You’re not alone.
You stand.
And in that single moment—you are the island.
The golden warmth swells inside you, small but whole, and you raise your hands. You don’t shout. You don’t pose.
You just return the energy you’ve been given.
Chris unleashes his storm.
And you meet it. Gladly.
The world goes white.
Chelsea
You wake up underwater.
But you’re not drowning.
The first thing you feel is warmth—soft and golden, pressing in around you like a second skin. You’re wrapped in something. Not cloth. Not vines. Something alive.
Roots.
They pulse with light. Not blue. Not cold.
Gold.
You blink, and your body remembers how to move. Your fingers twitch. Your lungs stretch. Your heart starts again—slow and calm, like nothing is hunting you anymore.
You’re inside a cradle of light, curled beneath the waterfall, wrapped in golden roots like a heartbeat made of earth. The water above ripples gently. Sound moves strange here, like the world is waiting.
You float up, the cocoon unraveling as you rise. Everything feels… clean. Not perfect, but possible.
As your head breaks the surface, you breathe in deeply. The air tastes like rain.
You’re not alone.
A man floats nearby—broad shoulders, golden shimmer. You remember him. Jim.
Two women rest beside him—one small and shaking, the other holding her close like a sister. You don’t know their names, but they feel important.
You look up.
Above the waterfall, the sky is lit with impossible fire.
Lightning crackles outward in cold blue arcs, wrapping around a figure high above—Chris.
You recognize him instantly. Same face. Same grin.
But now he glows like a god, arms wide, claiming the sky.
And across from him—another light rises. Smaller, golden, trembling but bright.
You don’t know her. But something in your chest tightens.
Then it happens.
The blue light surges—Chris throws everything he has.
The gold light answers.
They meet mid-air.
The blast doesn’t sound like thunder. It sounds like a scream underwater. Like a mountain exhaling.
You duck just as the waterfall explodes. The golden roots pull you back, shielding your body as the entire sky detonates.
Through them, you see Chris vanish first—swallowed in a blinding arc of blue and gold. One second, he’s grinning. The next, he’s gone.
The blue-glowing creatures circling him—twisted figures, crawling things, one that moved like Travis—are obliterated on the spot. They don’t burn. They just stop existing.
And the golden light—
It doesn’t vanish the same way. It expands. Like a soul exhaling. A goodbye whispered across the island.
And then… it’s gone too.
One last shape—another figure, still blue, still standing—is blasted backwards. You catch a glimpse of him flying through the air, flung like a ragdoll into the jungle beyond the ridge.
And then—
Silence.
The sky calms. The mist falls.
The waterfall is broken. The air is different. The storm is over.
You breathe again.
Not because it’s safe. Because it’s done.
You don’t know who that red light was.
You don’t know what she gave.
But you felt it.
A choice.
A sacrifice.
You sink deeper into the water, the golden cocoon curling around your limbs again.
Not to hide.
To remember.
You are still here.
And something new is beginning.
Email me your decisions at mike.hamilton2010@gmail.com
Mayo, Claudia, Jim & Chelsea’s Options:
- Check if Jordan Is Still Alive: You don’t know if he survived the explosion, or what state he’s in if he did. He could be hurt, corrupted… or worse.
- Investigate the Glowing Roots: Something’s down there. Golden light, living roots, a cocoon that held one of you safely through the blast. But what else might be hidden there? Was Chelsea’s rebirth unique—or just the beginning of something bigger?
- Inspect the Ruins of the Waterfall: The waterfall is no longer whole. Stones are scattered, energy still hums in the air, and something old seems to have been unlocked or exposed.
- Follow the Pull to the North: A faint call—subtle but persistent—rises in the back of your mind. It’s not a voice. It’s not fear. It’s something older. You can’t explain it, but the island wants you to go north. To find something. Or someone.
Part 5: Beneath the Lie
Michelle
You don’t step into the crater. Not yet.
You kneel at its edge, letting the blue light roll over your skin like frost. The air hums, tight and sterile. The fungal veins beneath your feet shift and twitch, but not toward you. They’re waiting. Listening.
So are you.
“I want to understand,” you say softly.
A half-truth.
The voice answers with a warmth that doesn’t reach your bones.
“Of course you do. That’s why you’re here.”
It circles you—not physically, but in presence. In pressure. It speaks from all sides, like a mind that doesn’t live in a mouth.
“You’re smarter than the others. You haven’t let the island consume you. Not yet.”
You let that linger. Then: “Why do you care?”
A ripple of amusement. “Because you’re close. So very close. Closer than any of them have ever gotten without falling apart.”
You force a breath, steady and slow. Beneath your palm, the roots of the Bloodwood Tree stretch deep underground. You don’t call on them—not yet. But they’re there. Waiting.
“And what happens if I fall apart?” you ask.
The voice softens. “Then the island wins. And you lose everything that makes you… you.”
It’s a good lie. A practiced one.
But you remember the red bark. The bitter sap. The strength it gave you not by overtaking you, but by making you feel complete. The Bloodwood didn’t erase you. It made you more.
“What is this place really?” you ask, nodding toward the crater. “A prison? A game?”
A beat of silence. Then, a hum of satisfaction.
“It’s a system. And systems need calibration. Purging. Correction.”
It pauses, letting the words land.
“You weren’t brought here to win, Michelle. You were brought here to clarify.”
You keep your face still, but inside, your pulse stirs.
You’re close.
Now.
You press your fingers into the soil. The roots stir—not to fight, but to veil. To distract. To make you small in the wrong ways, large in the right ones.
And then—the world convulses.
A soundless scream splits the air. The ground groans. Blue light flares, stutters.
You feel it—the island’s agony, shuddering through your spine.
Andrea.
You don’t know how, but you know her.
You feel her light break and scatter like seeds in the wind. And with it, the voice stumbles—just for a moment.
It’s enough.
The crater pulses—and you see.
Not visions this time. Not metaphors.
Truth.
An island, shattered and regrown.
Hundreds of people, maybe thousands, brought here over lifetimes.
Some turned, some broken, some devoured.
Each loop a little different. Each one a test. A culling.
And buried deep beneath the island—past stone, past roots, past the fungal net—a door. Smooth. Stone. Standing alone.
An exit.
At least, that’s what it looks like.
The moment closes. The light retracts.
And the voice returns, colder now.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” it says.
Flat. No amusement now.
You rise slowly.
“I didn’t do anything.”
Another half-truth.
You walk backward, away from the edge.
“I just listened.”
The voice doesn’t stop you. Not yet.
And the Bloodwood?
It hums at your back, stronger now. Rooted. Ready.
You don’t know everything. But you know this:
The voice is not a god.
It’s a warden.
A conductor.
A liar dressed in structure.
The Creator
And you—
You’re not part of its system.
Not anymore.
Email me your decision at mike.hamilton2010@gmail.com
Michelle’s Options:
- Strike Now, Take Advantage of His Weakness: The voice stumbled. You saw it. For one moment, the threads of control unraveled. You could call upon the Bloodwood Tree—its roots already stirred beneath you—and strike. Not to destroy him, maybe, but to wound. To leave a mark. To let him know you are not prey.
- Withdraw, Use What You’ve Learned and Find Allies: You’ve seen behind the curtain. You know this is bigger than you. Bigger than the crater. Whatever door lies buried, whatever cycle he’s repeating—it won’t end with you alone. There are others like you. You need them now.
- Stay Close, Use the Voice’s Vanity to Learn More: He called you clever. Let him keep thinking so. He doesn’t know what you saw. Doesn’t know what you suspect. If you press a little harder, pretend a little longer, you might learn where the door leads. What lies beyond it. And how to use it against him.
All That Was Taken
He hid behind the silver seal,
Let hunger pass, let monsters kneel.
But breath was steel, and steel betrayed—
The door he opened did not save.
She sang the storm and bent the skies,
But found the warmth behind their eyes.
The power hissed, the ground withdrew—
She smiled as hands pulled her from view.
She stepped into the silent glow,
And let the voices sink below.
No cry, no fight, no final plea—
Just one more soul the stone set free.
He ran with beasts but broke the pace,
A name still burned he could not face.
All that was taken stirred too near—
He stayed behind. He disappeared.
He crowned himself in sky and flame,
Declared the island knew his name.
But power bloats, and kings don’t last—
The world went white, then burned to ash.
She rose when standing had no gain,
Returned the gift, absorbed the pain.
And when his storm came crashing down,
She broke—but not before she was crowned.
– excerpt from The Infinite Corridor,
author unknown, date unknown
Vibe Check
An so it’s the end of the road for 6 brave survivors: Rosendo, Jordanna, Tyfanna, Chris, Andrea & Travis.
Rosendo tried to outthink the island but succumbed to his own pst decisions. Jordanna embraced her fate, letting go with a smile as the island pulled her away. Tyfanna accepted the silence, choosing peace over resistance as she walked into the altar. Travis remembered his past, avoiding a worse fate even as he ran with the pack. Chris, crowned in lightning, perished in the blaze he believed he could control. Andrea fell not as a warrior but as a guardian, becoming the island’s answer in her sacrifice.
16 remain. Who’s next?
Survivor Hamilton 