Previously on Survive The Island…
The island opened its mouth—and swallowed what remained of mercy.
In the bunker clearing, Rosendo fled from what Bryan had become—no longer man, but vessel. His body glowed with stolen power, and the earth moved for him. Roots obeyed. Something monstrous waited behind the sealed bunker door. Rosendo begged. The door answered. With teeth.
Ian and Mike watched from shadows. Below, the depths of the island yawned wide.
On the beach, the storm screamed like a living thing. Jordanna became its heart—arms raised, blue fire in her veins, voice echoing with something not her own. Cowin clutched his head, barely resisting. Andrew twitched like a marionette, the whispers crawling behind his eyes.
But then—Jill. Glowing red. Glowing gold. She did not fight the storm. She answered it with light. Not to destroy—but to heal. She poured the island’s breath into the broken boys, and for a moment, they came back to themselves. The sickness withdrew.
And the island noticed.
Without warning, the sand exploded. Hands—not human—dragged Jordanna beneath. No scream. Just a smile. Just eyes. And then—nothing.
At the lighthouse, Peter was reborn. The altar cracked. Tyfanna joined the figures. The chamber pulsed with blue. Graham and Mayoli pulled a hidden lever and fled into the unknown. Behind them, Peter opened his eyes.
At the waterfall, Chris crowned himself king. Jordan followed. The Pack swarmed. But Andrea stood alone, full of light. No hesitation. She answered the blue with gold—and ended everything. Him. Her. Travis. Gone.
And elsewhere, at the crater’s edge, Michelle listened. The voice spoke in systems, in loops, in rules. But she saw what it hid. A door buried deep. A cycle of culling. And when the voice faltered—she did not.
The roots shifted. The light flared. The island shivered.
And something, somewhere, was watching.
Jump to:
Jordan
Chelsea, Claudia, Jim & Mayo
Graham, Mayoli, & Peter
Mike, Ian & Bryan
Cowin, Boon, Andrew & Jill
Michelle
Part 1: Stillness
Jordan
It begins not with fire, but with silence.
Everything slows. Not in the way fear slows time—but in the way time itself seems to shatter. You are frozen, watching from inside your own skull as Andrea lifts her arms toward the storm, glowing with veins of bright crimson. Her hair floats around her like it’s underwater. Every particle in the air is alive, waiting. Across from her, Chris gleams with impossible confidence, a perfect statue of blue fire. The island hums along with him. Not cheering. Not warning. Simply recognizing.
Andrea doesn’t glow. She blooms. Something ancient pulses through her—roots of light, memories of pain, the will of the true island. It wraps around her ribs and spine, climbs her arms, reaches into the sky. For a moment, you feel it. All of it. Her defiance. Her forgiveness. Her final choice.
Then comes the blast.
But in this memory, you see it frame by frame. The blue fire bursts from Chris’s hands, all jagged edges and screaming arcs. Andrea answers not with force, but with presence. Her light doesn’t pierce—it spreads. It’s not a weapon. It’s a verdict. The two collide midair. The world bends.
Your body tears away, launched backward into nothing. You feel the air leave your lungs. The light floods your skull. You hear Andrea’s voice without sound: Remember who we are.
You fall.
And land somewhere that isn’t land.
There is no ground here. No sky. Just dark blue and black, swirling like ink in water. You float—or maybe hang—inside it. Shapes churn at the edge of your vision: people, places, echoes. Women screaming in a storm. A vengeful man slamming a metal door shut. The hostile woman you ran from reaching back into the pool. The pack howling, one of them still mostly human.
And then—you.
Watching. Choosing silence. Turning away. You see the moment at the pool again. The woman, offering her hand this time. You, backing off. Running. You feel that decision like a crack in your chest. You knew even then what it meant. You chose fear.
The void thickens.
A pressure builds behind your eyes.
And then—he speaks.
“There you are.”
The words are soft, but they split your thoughts like glass. They don’t echo. They fold.
“Do you understand it now? This island isn’t cruel. It’s structured. Patterned. Beautiful, in its way.”
You try to move. You can’t. Your limbs are numb. You aren’t floating anymore. You’re stuck.
“Andrea disrupted the process. Burned a circuit that was working exactly as it should.”
The voice is warm now. Proud. Curious.
“She refused to become what I needed. But you? You’ve always been so… pliable.”
You try to scream. Nothing comes out.
“Stay right there, Jordan. Become part of the system. Part of the stillness. That’s what you’ve always been. The Still One.”
And then—real light. Real pain.
You open your eyes.
You’re on the ground, surrounded by damp moss, broken branches, and blood. The jungle leans over you like a crowd of strangers. The waterfall is gone—just rubble now, slick with moisture and glowing spores. You try to sit up. Your arms twitch.
Nothing moves.
Nothing moves.
Just stillness.
Panic claws up your throat. You try to scream again. Your jaw won’t open. You can’t feel your legs. Your ribs grind together when you breathe. Something deep inside you knows: you’re broken.
And the blue fungus is crawling toward you.
It pulses, soft and slow. Inching. Reaching. You stare at it, helpless. The island isn’t trying to kill you.
It’s trying to claim you.
You think of Andrea. Of the moment when Chris first came to you. Of every time you could have spoken, and didn’t. Every time you could have stepped forward, and stayed sitting. You think of the word that describes you best—reactive—and wonder if that’s all you’ll be.
The spores are closer now.
Ten feet. Five.
You don’t know if anyone will come.
But you know what happens if they don’t.
Email me your decision at mike.hamilton2010@gmail.com
Jordan’s Options:
- Give in and let the fungus take you: Maybe there’s peace in becoming part of the island. Maybe resistance at this point is selfish.
- Argue with the voice: You can’t walk. But you can use your words to explain why you’re still of use. Why your story isn’t what the voice claims.
- Keep trying to move and hope someone comes: You don’t know if someone will come to help you. You just hope they do.
Part 2: Touched by Gold
(Chelsea, Jim, Claudia & Mayo)
Chelsea
You float just beneath the water’s surface, lungs full, body suspended, but not weightless. The pool cradles you. Carries you. Not like a victim, limp and lost, but like a blade being sharpened.
The waterfall above is nothing now—a wreck of stone and memory. Its roar has quieted into the hiss of steam and shifting rubble. But you remember its power. You remember the explosion. The brilliance of it. The terror. Chris consumed by the island’s blue fire, crackling like a god, and the golden woman… becoming something greater. A vessel of the island’s fury. Her final act a beam of golden retribution that split the world in two. And it worked. It worked.
But she’s gone. She gave everything. And you’re still here.
When you were dragged by the corruption into the engine, you thought it was the end. It had seeped into you—voices screaming, shadows pressing against your skull. The only thing you could hold onto was Peter’s face. Broken. Fractured. Still trying to understand. Still human. And you tried to protect him. Even when it made no sense. Even when the voice in your head said hurt him. You didn’t. You refused.
And it hurt you for that.
But something else didn’t.
The golden roots caught you. The warmth of the real island—the true island—reached out and refused to let you go. You didn’t die in that engine. You were reforged in it.
And now, you’re back. Whole. Changed. And you are done being afraid.
You tilt your head just enough to see Claudia and Mayo nearby. You know their names somehow. Claudia’s fingers are tight around her sister’s wrist, like if she lets go, the world might splinter again. Jim’s watching everything. Quiet, still, alert, strong. Like the water gave him clarity.
The four of you survived the blast. That should mean something.
Beneath you, the golden roots begin to pulse in rhythm with your breath, each throb a steady invitation. They know what you are now. They see what you chose. And they’re asking what you’ll do next.
Your hands tremble—not with fear, but with potential. This is the moment. This is the part in the story where you finally step forward instead of flinching back. No more reacting. No more surviving just to survive.
You want vengeance. You want justice. You want to fight.
You reach one hand deeper into the pool, fingertips brushing the thickest root at the center. It glows brighter at your touch, casting a golden shimmer across your skin.
You remember the pain of the voices. The scream of the engine. The moment you closed your eyes and let the island decide if you lived.
You remember the silence that followed. Then warmth.
You press both hands forward now, heart thudding. The light below sharpens. You see it clearly—the path forward.
And with a breath full of fury and purpose, you dive.
Claudia
You’ve never seen the water like this before. So still. So dim. So wrong.
The golden warmth that once wrapped you like a promise now flickers, soft and sickly, as if even the pool is grieving. You kneel in the shallows, one hand buried in the sand, the other gripping Mayo’s wrist—not to pull her in, but to keep yourself from slipping out.
The waterfall is gone.
Gone.
The roaring cascade that had protected you for months, the sound that filled the emptiness in your chest after they were all gone—your friends, your group, your last chances—now nothing but rocks and dust. You can barely breathe. Each breath catches, chokes, burns. Your ribs ache from the weight of what’s been taken. Not just the water, or the protection, but the proof that this island still had something sacred in it.
You glance at Mayo. Tu hermana. Your sister. Not by blood, but by bond. She’s watching you with worry in her eyes. You try to smile. It fails. You murmur, “Estoy bien,” and she knows you’re lying.
You want to scream. You want to throw rocks at the broken ridge and curse whatever did this. That monster. You didn’t know him, but you know his kind. The ones who think destruction is proof of strength. The ones who get other people killed. But he’s gone now. Your golden ally too.
You feel her in the water. Her light. Una guardiana verdadera. She left something behind. A scar in the air. A hush in the pool.
Chelsea is standing nearby, quiet. Watching the ripples around her ankles like they’ll spell something out. She’s new. Strong, maybe, but shaken. And Jim—Jim who helped you with Mayo, who stood beside her while she trembled with blue light in her veins—he’s still breathing hard, like the fight hasn’t ended.
It hasn’t.
Because something is happening in the water. Under the water.
You feel it before you see it. The golden roots shift, pulse, reach like veins through the sand. Not threatening. Not angry. But aware. They recognize you. They recognize all of you. And they’re offering something. Un mensaje. Una misión.
You remember the reason you came here. Not just survival. Mayo. Jim. Whoever else is still good on this cursed island. You told yourself the roots gave you safety—but that’s not enough. Not now. You need to know.
“Nos llama,” you whisper to Mayo. She nods. You both understand. The pool is fading. The waterfall is broken. The island is bleeding, but not yet dead. Something stirs in its heart, asking for help. And you will answer.
You close your eyes. Let the roots find you. Let them show you the truth, the path, the task. You open your hands. You descend.
Jim
You sit in stillness as the golden glow hums beneath the surface. The water should be cold, but it’s not. It’s alive. Warm. Comforting. Like it knows you. Like it’s saying: You’re not the same man who ran away, you’re the one that fought.
But you remember. You remember Travis.
You see him again — the blue-veined grin, the cracking bone, the way his body was no longer his. The cave was too dark. The fear too loud. You ran. He smiled. You fled. And you’ve never really stopped running since.
Until now.
The waterfall is ruined. Rubble and smoke. The golden woman is gone. Chris is gone. Travis is gone — again. You saw him, twisted and towering beside Chris, and then you saw the explosion tear them apart. The light from her wasn’t just golden. It was angry. It wanted justice.
And when it hit, you didn’t cower. You stood, rooted in the pool, as if the water wrapped itself around your bones and whispered, You’re stronger now. Stand still.
It wasn’t fear that held you then. It was power. Belonging.
You glance to Claudia. To Mayo. To Chelsea — glowing, reborn, fierce. You were once with her in the clearing, before everything fell apart. And now you’re here again. A circle, maybe. A second chance.
Claudia went back for Mayo. You watched her do what you couldn’t for Travis. It hit hard. But instead of shame, you feel… gratitude. That someone did it. That someone else had that courage, even when you didn’t.
But you helped too, and now Mayo is here. You’re starting to notice new things about Mayo. Things you never noticed before, but maybe you had?
But mercifully, the three of you are whole — or at least something close to it.
But that glow beneath the surface… it’s not just light. It’s calling.
You reach your hand into the water and feel the pulse. Golden. Familiar. And something else — like an echo of the island’s heartbeat.
There are two sides. You’ve seen enough to know that now. Chris was lost to the blue — and took Travis with him. But here, in the water, you feel the other path. The one that feels like hope.
You know the others feel it too. Chelsea’s jaw is set like someone preparing for battle. Claudia’s lips move in silent prayer. Mayo, for the first time in days, looks like herself again.
You don’t want to just survive anymore. You want to fight. And to do that, you need to know more. You need to see what this island really is.
So you hold your breath.
And you go under.
Mayo
You float in the fading warmth of the pool, the silence so pure it feels like it might break. There are no voices now. No whispers slicing through your mind like vines, no shadows shaping themselves into commands. Just water, breath, heartbeat, and Claudia.
Your sister’s hand is in yours. It hasn’t let go since she pulled you in. You remember the crushing cold that clung to your bones before—when those men felt like brothers, like anchors, like some strange kind of family. But it wasn’t real. It was never real. They pulled at something in you that wanted to belong… but they weren’t pulling you back. They were dragging you down.
Jim is nearby. You feel his presence more than you see him, like a ripple of tension softened by time. He didn’t have to help. He didn’t have to reach for you when you were halfway gone. You were not sure if you trusted him, and now it feels like you can’t live without him. Extraña.
Claudia… She’s different now too. Stronger. More present than the Claudia you thought you remembered—if the girl in your memories was ever real at all. There’s something radiant about her now, like the island is holding her up the way it once tried to pull you under. She saved you. Again.
The pain comes in waves when you let yourself remember. The ship. The bones. Boon. His voice still surfaces sometimes in the back of your mind, an echo of someone who once held your hand on the beach and told you everything would be okay. He’d be horrified if he saw what you’d become. What you almost did to him. And yet, when the water washed through you, some part of that self was washed away too. You hope.
And now… the pool is fading. The golden glow beneath the surface isn’t reaching as high as it did before. The rocks of the waterfall, once a sanctuary, now lie cracked and broken, like ribs snapped open after a deathblow. You mourn the loss even if you never truly lived in that safety. Claudia did. And through her, it hurts.
But then you see it. Or feel it. Something beneath. Something old and alive and whispering—not like the voices that tormented you, but like a language you almost remember from a dream. The roots. They pulse with golden light, not sharp and searing like the blue that tried to claim you, but soft and humming like a heartbeat.
You glance at Claudia. Her gaze is locked below. Jim stares downward too, brow furrowed. Chelsea is already moving, as if she knows what’s waiting. You realize then that the island isn’t done with you. It brought you back for a reason.
You tighten your grip on Claudia’s hand.
You nod once.
Then you dive.
You each plunge into the pool’s glowing depths.
Not alone — never truly alone now — but in a shared silence, a collective pull, each of you drawn by your own reasons. The golden water warms you as you drift deeper, deeper still, where the light brightens, not dims. Your lungs don’t ache. You don’t need to breathe.
The roots find you.
Not in the way vines entangle or the jungle devours. These are living lines of memory, tendrils of ancient intent. They pulse with warmth and invitation, glowing softly like veins beneath skin. When they touch you, the light opens.
You see.
You see the island as a battlefield, forces moving in shadow and sun. Two sides — always two sides — but this time you know you’re on the right one. You feel the roots reinforce your choice. You were right to trust the golden pool. You were right to believe there are secrets in the water. Now, you must choose where to take that belief next.
You see the waterfall as it once was, sacred and whole. You feel the grief of its loss tear through you like ice. But deeper still is the truth — it’s not just a place. It’s a conduit. A womb of rebirth. It held you, protected you. But now it shows you paths forward — toward safety, toward your sister, toward the fight you never asked for but cannot avoid.
You see the engine room, cold and humming. The ghosts of choices made and unmade hover around you — Peter’s broken mind, your own fraying edges. But now you stand tall. The voices no longer drown you — they listen. You asked the island for strength, and it heard. Now it shows you weapons not of steel, but of direction. There’s a war coming, and the island wants to know: will you stand at its front?
You see Claudia’s eyes — not the pool, not the jungle — but her eyes the first time you remembered her name. That moment of silence. Peace. You feel it now again, in the roots, in the way they gently tether you back to yourself. But you feel the pull, too. Jim. Chelsea. Others out there still fighting, still breaking. The tree shows you ways to bring that peace to them. To save them like you were saved.
And then the visions shift — not separate, but shared, overlapping.
You see an Underground Cavern, the ancient symbols there glowing now with golden fire, waiting for someone who understands them.
You see the Bloodwood Tree, dark and red and pulsing like a heartbeat, its roots stretching further than you ever imagined, almost… aware.
You see a twisted branch structure, once terrifying, now humming with invitation, as if it wants to be understood.
And you see the jungle, the rocks and roots where Jordan may still live, unmoving, forgotten.
And then the roots loosen.
The choice is yours — together, or apart — but the island will not wait long.
Email me your decision at mike.hamilton2010@gmail.com
Chelsea, Claudia, Jim & Mayo’s Options:
- Travel to the Twisted Branch Structure: It’s connected to the roots in the pool somehow, and you sense something important is happening not far from there.
- Travel to the Bloodwood Tree. It pulses with resistance — and power. It’s the source of the island’s energy, or at least it’s “a” source.
- Travel to the Underground Cavern. Ancient symbols wait to be read. You may find rest down there. And answers.
- Return to the surface. Check on Jordan. He may still be alive. And you may be his only hope.
Part 3: Obey Or Perish
(Graham, Mayoli & Peter)
Graham
You don’t speak. The chamber doesn’t ask for sound. It demands stillness. Demands observation. From the floor beneath you to the black altar at your back, every surface feels like it’s waiting for the wrong move.
Tyfanna is already gone. Still on her feet, but gone. Whatever part of her resisted the island… it gave out quietly. No scream. No struggle. Just peace that came too easily. That’s what unsettles you most.
And this man—he’s wrong in every way you can measure it. Still shaped like a man, still breathing, but no longer present. The thing that emerged from the stone didn’t hesitate. Didn’t flinch. Just stepped out and started looking for someone to follow. He hasn’t moved toward you, but you can feel his attention skimming the edges of your thoughts like fingers tapping glass.
Your eyes return to the floor. The carvings are still there. A story in blood and scoring. Red for sanctuary. Blue for corruption. A line in between that offered something else: a door. You followed it until it disappeared into the wall.
But it was Mayoli who saw where it ended.
She didn’t say a word. Just tilted her head toward the fungus-wrapped stone, her gaze fixed on something you couldn’t see at first. You followed it—her eyes—to the lever. Half-hidden. Rusted. Real. That’s the moment your decision solidified.
You run through the logic again, fast but thorough. Speaking to this man/monster is a risk you can’t measure. Running is a panic response—and panic gets people killed. But the lever? It fits. The markings implied a mechanism. The wall gave a boundary. This is an opening made by choice, not compulsion. You don’t know what’s behind it. That’s fine. You’ve made decisions with less.
You step forward and grip the handle.
It sticks at first—stone resisting stone—and you brace, tightening your grip, ready for the sound. It comes with a deep groan, like something waking that doesn’t want to. Dust shakes loose from the seams in the wall. A slit appears, vertical and narrow, and a breath of cold air spills out—empty and black.
No glow. No hum. Just a passage into nothing. And that’s exactly what you want.
You don’t look back at him. You don’t look at Mayoli. You assume she’s behind you—close enough to follow. She’s the one who found the lever. She saw what you saw. She understands.
The air in the tunnel changes immediately. Cooler. Drier. The pressure of the chamber lifts as you step inside. Your shoulders loosen, just a little. The darkness thickens fast, forcing your eyes to adjust. You press a hand to the wall, using touch to guide where vision fades. The stone here is coarse. Rough-cut. Nothing about this place was made to be seen.
Each footstep carries further than it should, echoing into a curve you haven’t reached yet. And still—no sound behind you.
You slow. Turn. Wait.
She should be here.
You strain your ears, but there’s nothing. No breath. No steps. Just the slow drip of condensation on stone and the whisper of your own heartbeat crawling up your throat.
She knew this was the exit. She motioned to it. Found it before you did. So why—
A flicker of doubt presses sharp against your ribs.
You don’t panic. You analyze. You play the moment back. She looked calm. Focused. Maybe she’s buying time. Distracting him. Giving you a head start. That’s the rational answer. But the longer the silence lasts, the less convinced you are.
You reach the bend in the tunnel. The darkness ahead waits patiently.
You don’t move forward. Not yet.
She saw the lever. She found it before you did. She was supposed to be right behind you. But maybe… maybe she didn’t move fast enough. Maybe she hesitated. Or maybe she never committed to the choice at all. You wouldn’t know. She didn’t say.
And now the door is closing—not the stone one. The chance. The alignment. The plan.
The lever you pulled was the right decision. But it only opened one path.
And she might not be on it.
Mayoli
The stone shifts. The wall groans open, and the dark invites you forward.
This was the plan.
You saw the lever before Graham did. You followed the line of fungus, found the mechanism, traced the silence around it. You didn’t say anything—you didn’t need to. When Graham pulled it, it felt right. And when the wall opened, you moved.
Or meant to.
Your leg starts forward—but that’s when Peter moves faster than she can see. The same Peter that Mayoli met in the jungle clearing what feels like a lifetime ago. But not the same Peter at all.
One moment he’s seated near the altar. The next, his hand is on your arm. Cold. Still. Heavy. As if he never had to move. As if he’s always been beside you, waiting for this exact breath.
You suck in air through your teeth. Not fear. Not yet. Just shock. The kind that knocks logic sideways.
His fingers don’t squeeze. They don’t bruise. They claim.
“I am reawakened,” he says, voice like oil poured slow across stone.
“I am the island. Its work is mine.”
You don’t pull away.
Not because you agree.
But because something in the room shifts around his words. The altar hums. The air grows thicker. Every instinct in you goes rigid, uncertain whether it’s danger… or gravity.
“But I am not the only one who will obey,” Peter says, turning slightly toward the altar, as though addressing the frozen figures. “Obey or perish.”
He doesn’t look at you as he says it—but he doesn’t have to.
His grip on your arm tightens just slightly, anchoring you in place.
“Mayoli is next.”
You blink.
The tunnel is still open. Graham is gone. No footsteps. No voice. Just the last breath of a plan you meant to follow.
“She can hear the island too,” Peter murmurs. “She will listen.”
You want to move. You meant to move. You were moving.
But now you are being spoken of as though you already have given up.
Peter’s voice lowers, deepens, like a sermon meant only for the walls.
“I can sense that she hears the whispers of the island too.”
You haven’t. Not once. No voices. No commands. No blue light clawing into your thoughts.
But Peter believes it. And that belief settles in the air like humidity—thick, clinging, and hard to deny.
He crouches, impossibly fluid, and sits cross-legged at your feet. A monk, a priest, a prophet made of salt and stone. His fingers leave your arm. He gestures to the empty space beside him.
“You hear it too,” he says. This time, to you.
And somehow, that’s worse than everything else.
Because part of you wants to say no.
And part of you isn’t sure it would matter.
You stare at the tunnel. It’s still black. Still open. But something in the timing feels final. The moment to escape was there—but you didn’t move quickly enough. Now it feels like leaving would require tearing something.
Not a wall. Something inside you.
Your feet stay rooted. Your breath is shallow. You don’t sit. You don’t speak. But you don’t leave, either.
Peter waits beside you. Patient. Quiet. Still as stone. Cold.
And in the silence between your heartbeat and your next breath, a thought surfaces:
You were too slow.
And now… you’re not sure who you’re listening to anymore.
Peter
She doesn’t move fast enough. Nobody could.
The wall parts like a secret letting go, and the man slips into the dark without a sound. No farewell. No resistance. Just absence.
He was important somehow. You’ll get to him later, because now only you and Mayoli remain.
You take her arm before she can follow—smooth, deliberate, as if you were always meant to intercept her. Her muscles tighten beneath your fingers, but she doesn’t wrench away. Doesn’t scream. Doesn’t run.
To you, that means one thing: she understands.
You lower yourself beside her, knees pressing against the cold stone. Your movements are slow, sacred. The altar behind you hums softly, pulsing in rhythm with something inside your chest.
You speak, your voice barely louder than a breath.
“You hear it too.”
She doesn’t answer.
But that’s not silence. That’s listening.
Her eyes stay fixed on the closed passage. Her breath is shallow. Her body taut.
You see this as reverence. As proximity to awakening.
But maybe you’re missing the truth—that she’s frozen not by awe, but by calculation.
That the pause is fear. That the stillness is resistance.
You do not care.
Because something inside you is changing.
You feel it in your fingertips first—a slight tingle, like cold wind brushing the inside of your skin. Then your jaw. Then your spine. Not pain. Structure.
You reach inward.
There’s no warmth. No breath of forest. No heartbeat of stone. Only a hum—clean, mechanical, endless.
You remember the void.
The thing you destroyed there—rotted, glowing gold—was not your enemy. Not really.
But it was weak.
You did what the island could not.
And something… noticed.
You thought the altar gave you life. You were wrong.
The Engine remembered your defiance. The Creator—whatever it is—took interest.
You weren’t chosen.
You were claimed.
And you welcomed it.
The realization settles over you not like dread, but like truth.
This isn’t the island’s voice moving through you.
It’s colder. Smarter. It knows what it wants.
And now you do too.
You glance at Mayoli again. Her arm is still within your reach, though your hand has fallen away. She hasn’t fled. You take that as a sign.
You could complete this.
Her resistance is flickering. All it would take is one act of guidance. One communion. One command. She would fold into this purpose and become what the island never asked for but always needed.
But maybe she isn’t enough.
You turn your head toward the altar.
Its frozen shapes remain half-submerged in stone—faces captured mid-worship, mid-death, mid-ascension. One of them could be next. You could wake another.
There’s enough power now to do it.
You glance toward the sealed wall. The coward ran. Not far. Not fast.
You could follow.
You could reach him before the path closes completely. Drag him back. Show him who you are now.
Or…
You could leave.
Not down. Not deeper.
But up.
What if the island is waiting—not below—but above?
You rise, slow and deliberate.
The choices expand before you, each thrumming with potential.
And though the chamber is silent, it feels like the world is holding its breath.
You are not corrupted.
You are not the island’s puppet.
You are the mistake neither side accounted for.
And now, you decide what comes next.
Email me your decisions at mike.hamilton2010@gmail.com
Graham’s Options
- Keep going forward into the dark tunnel: You trust that Mayoli will follow — she saw the lever, too. If you hesitate, you might lose the chance to escape.
- Stop and wait in the tunnel for Mayoli: You can’t leave her behind. If she’s only seconds behind, you can still pull her through before the wall reseals.
- Go back for her: Whatever that man is, you can’t let him take her. If you go back, maybe together you can make it out alive.
- Take the branching left path marked with strange symbols: It looks more dangerous — narrow, twisted, and steep — but something about it feels like it leads somewhere important.
Mayoli’s Options
- Break free and fight your way out: You’re not giving him the satisfaction. Rip your arm away and run — no tricks, no pretense, just pure escape.
- Stop resisting and let him take over: It’s safer to play along — maybe he’ll loosen his grip, and you’ll get another chance. Or maybe you’re just tired of fighting.
- Purposely submit to try and understand what he’s become.: There’s something else here — something controlling him. If you let go of your fear, maybe you can connect with it… and learn what this power really is.
Peter’s Options
- Complete Mayoli’s conversion and bind her to your cause: She’s close. If you reach her fully, she could become the first of many.
- Leave Mayoli and awaken another from the altar: There are others frozen in stone. You believe you have the strength now — one of them might be more worthy.
- Leave Mayoli and pursue the man into the tunnel: He ran. He thinks he’s free. But the island deserves witnesses — or servants — and he could still become one.
- Leave Mayoli and exit the lighthouse to ascend or explore: You’ve been reborn in shadow. Perhaps the crystal above will crown you in light. The island might be waiting for your next evolution.
Part 4: Variables
(Mike, Ian & Bryan)
Mike
You crouch behind the trees, breath shallow, heart stammering against your ribs like it wants out. Not from fear—no, not entirely. It’s the sound.
Bryan’s voice.
Not a shout. Not a threat. Just… soft. Patient. You can’t make out the words, but the tone cuts deeper than anything else.
He’s not trying to kill Ian. He’s trying to keep him.
You edge closer, careful not to shake the branches. The clearing spreads out like a stage, and Bryan stands at its center, glowing faintly at the edges, the beast beside him like a shadow that forgot how to move. Ian is on the ground still, but upright now—roots limp at his sides, like they’re waiting for permission. He looks up at Bryan like someone facing down gravity itself.
You don’t know what Bryan is anymore. Not just corrupted. Not a puppet. He speaks like someone who’s already won.
You remember the structure. The way Ian had looked at you then. Afraid. You’d cornered him, broken by the whispers, convinced of something that wasn’t true. He ran. Of course he ran. You scared him.
Now Bryan’s the one whispering. But not with words. With certainty.
You glance at the creature kneeling beside him. That’s what terrifies you most. It isn’t snarling. It’s not even breathing hard. It’s just… waiting. Like a blade on a table.
You take a step—too fast, too clumsy.
Snap.
A twig cracks under your foot like a gunshot in the still.
Bryan stops speaking. His head turns, slow as fog.
Ian’s gaze snaps to the sound.
And that’s all it takes.
You move.
You don’t think, don’t plan, don’t speak—you just run. Bursting from the green, catching Ian by the arm as he half-rises, confusion flickering across his face. You pull. He stumbles. Together you sprint—not toward safety, but toward the only thing that still has a door.
The bunker yawns ahead of you, its frame still open from Rosendo’s flight. Cold air snakes out, wrapping around your ankles like warning.
Behind you, no footsteps.
You shove Ian forward, both of you crashing into metal and shadow. His hand finds the lock. The door slams.
Silence, thick and final.
You stagger back, shoulder burning, lungs raw. The metal is still ice cold from Bryan’s touch.
Ian turns to you. Doesn’t say anything. Just stares. His chest rises and falls like someone trying to decide between fight or freeze.
“I owed you,” you say. The words come out low, rough.
Still, nothing from Ian. Just that stare.
You don’t blame him.
You’d stare too.
Ian
The door slams. The lock clicks. And for a moment, the silence feels earned.
Not safety—just a break in the noise. No more glowing skin, no blue-eyed statue-men whispering certainty. No roots coiling around your ribs. Just concrete and breath and a metallic echo where panic used to be.
You stagger back, hands on your knees. The air is colder than it should be. Sterile. Manufactured. But not dead. It tastes faintly of electricity and metal and something older underneath—like the scent of the inside of a locked drawer.
Mike is breathing hard behind you. Watching. You don’t turn to look. He didn’t have to come for you. That much you understand. But you don’t owe him anything for it. Not right now.
Instead, you scan the room. Upper level. Cracked monitors line a wall above old desks. Papers lie in heaps beside an overturned chair, smudged with water damage and ink that bled long before you arrived. One map half-pinned to the wall is marked with frantic, overlapping symbols.
You move.
There’s a stairwell tucked into the far corner, mostly hidden behind a rack of binders and a half-collapsed filing cabinet. It slopes downward with a sharp metal rail and no exit in sight. You descend. Mike doesn’t say anything. Just follows, careful.
The air thickens the deeper you go. Your ears pop. The hum gets louder—not a machine-hum. Something older than that. Resonant. Like the whole structure is humming through your bones.
You step into the lab.
It’s worse than you expected, and cleaner.
The floor is concrete, pale grey, polished smooth where it isn’t cracked. Rows of vertical glass tubes line the right wall—some fogged, others streaked inside with something viscous, yellow-brown. Not empty. But not alive.
Your eyes move fast, practiced. Center of the room: steel slab, waist height. Blood dried to rust stains along the groove in its surface. There’s no sheet, no body, no overt sign of violence. But something about the tidiness of it stops you cold.
Whoever did whatever happened here… they had time.
You don’t touch it. Just keep moving.
In the corner of the room, there’s a workstation. The screen is dark. Dust across the keyboard except the spacebar, which someone has pressed recently enough to leave a smudge. Your hand twitches. You consider pressing it again—but don’t.
You glance sideways. A thick binder sits open on a rolling cart, pages warped with water damage. The header on one page reads “Behavioral Control – Third Cycle Subjects.” You don’t read the rest. You don’t need to.
Mike lingers behind you, near the tubes, his eyes catching on a tube with something inside—something floating. He starts to say something, then stops. Good. You don’t need guesses. You need facts.
And then something shifts.
Not a sound. A pressure. A breath, maybe. Air against your ankle.
You freeze.
The source is near the far wall. Low. You crouch, scanning—until you find it.
A vent. Square. About the size of your torso. The grate is half-dislodged, screws rusted at the edges, one lying on the floor nearby like a tooth spat out. And from within—air. Cold. Wet. Pulling past your cheek in a slow exhale.
There shouldn’t be airflow in a sealed lab.
You press your palm to the vent. The metal vibrates faintly beneath your touch. Behind it—space. Hollow and deep.
You lean closer. One breath. One second.
And feel it:
A current. Not just air.
A pull.
You glance at Mike. He’s already watching you.
You don’t say anything.
Bryan
You kneel beside him. Not the creature. Ian. Still curled where the roots let go, still breathing, still afraid.
You don’t reach out. Not yet. You want this moment to last. You want him to know he’s not prey. He’s invited.
“I spared you,” you say. Calm. Measured. “Not out of pity. Out of potential.”
No answer. But he doesn’t move. He listens.
“You’re not like them. You see things. You stay quiet. You survive. Like me.”
You take a single step closer, slow and unthreatening.
“I’m not asking for loyalty,” you say. “I’m offering purpose.”
The roots near him twitch. Not in warning—in agreement.
You almost smile.
“You could matter.”
You breathe in, already seeing it. Ian at your side. The creature behind you. A trinity of will, chosen by the island.
Then—Crack. A twig.
It sounds like metal, warped and final. Like a bunker door slamming shut.
And suddenly—he’s gone.
You don’t move.
You stare at the place where Ian just was, the space still warm with possibility. The silence floods back in. Not the silence of solitude. The silence of rejection.
You turn, slowly. There’s no one there. No footsteps. No scuffle. Just the sealed bunker door. You recognize the shape of it. You know what this is. This is what it feels like to be shut out. Again.
But you don’t let the anger in. You don’t let the moment spiral. You hold still. Cold. Composed. They made their decision. They saw your hand extended—and turned away. You let that truth settle along with the realization that you just lost about 20 seconds of memory…
Then you look down.
The creature hasn’t moved. Still kneeling. Still waiting. Its breath steams faintly in the air. Its body is massive, roped with mismatched muscles, blue veins flickering beneath the skin like forgotten circuits.
You reach out and place your hand on its head.
The world shifts.
Not visually. Not even physically. But something in you bends.
Your thoughts slow. Your heartbeat stills. And then—A corridor. A cage. Screaming. Cold.
You feel metal restraints tighten. You feel memories carved out with surgical efficiency. A man’s name—gone. A pack, distant. A voice, once heard in the dark, calling him brother.
And now?
Now there is no voice. No pack. No memory. Just service. Just stillness.
Just waiting for something to fill the hollow. A new master.
Or its old Master.
You pull your hand back, breath caught.
It would follow you anywhere. But would it understand? Would it want to?
You look past the bunker now. Past the clearing. Past the moment.
This island is not a trap. It’s a canvas.
The others keep asking what it wants.
You know better.
It’s not about what it wants.
It’s about what you’re willing to take.
You feel your pulse return—heavy with certainty.
The bunker is not your destination. It’s a symptom.
The others are not your allies. They’re variables.
And this creature? It’s not a weapon. Not yet.
But maybe…
Maybe it could be a throne.
Email me your decisions at mike.hamilton2010@gmail.com
Mike & Ian’s Options
- Examine the lab: the tubes, the table, the documents: Each corner of this place hums with buried purpose. Something happened here—something controlled, unfinished. If you want answers, you’ll need to get closer to what was left behind.
- Activate the computer terminal: The glow is faint, but the power is still live. You don’t know what it’ll show—or what it might wake up again. But knowledge could be the only weapon you have left.
- Open the vent and descend into the unknown: It’s colder near the grate. A breeze. A call. Whatever’s beneath this place isn’t waiting for both of you—it’s waiting for whoever’s brave or foolish enough to go first.
Bryan’s Options
- Strengthen your bond with the creature: There’s more inside it. Not just loyalty, but memory. If it was once someone like you, maybe it can become something more—a partner, a voice, even a weapon.
- Share your power and break into the bunker: You could give it more—just enough to tear the rest of the door down and go after them. But power shared is power lost. Are you ready to spend part of yourself just to prove you were right?
- Leave them behind. Seek the Master: You’ve seen the jungle’s patterns. The island doesn’t just punish—it rewards those who move. If the creature is where the blue began, maybe it’s where your reign begins too.
- Leave them behind. The creature too: You have big plans for this island, and you have your own ideas for where you go next. What are they?
Part 5: To Be You Again
(Cowin, Boon, Jill & Andrew)
Cowin
You’ve never been in the jungle before.
The wreck, the beach, the water—those you know. But this? This green, dripping place with its knotted roots and crooked trees and air like wet cotton? This is new.
And it’s wrong.
There are no animals. No rustles. No shrieks in the canopy. No life.
The silence is so total it feels forced, like something made it this way. Like everything that should be here got scared and left.
You hate it.
Not the jungle. The quiet. The same kind that’s crept into your chest ever since Jill’s light touched you. It’s not peace. It’s vacuum. Like the infection was holding your mind together, and now you’re left with what’s underneath.
You.
And you’re not sure that’s any better.
The others walk like they’re following ghosts. Jill leads, arms half-lifted like she’s reading the trees with her skin. Boon lags behind her, limping. Andrew keeps rubbing his nose like he’s trying to erase something that isn’t there anymore. You stick close without meaning to. No one talks.
Then Jill stops.
She says it softly. “We’re close. The battle cry… it came from just ahead.”
There’s warmth in her voice. A kind of pull. The part of her that wants to save, not fight.
But before you can think about it, the world shifts.
BOOM.
Not thunder. Not lightning. Something deeper. Heavier. From the left.
The trees tremble. The ground stutters.
Everyone flinches. Jill spins, wide-eyed. Then freezes again.
Her gaze turns right. Still. Slow. Focused.
“Something just woke up,” she whispers.
And that’s when it hits you. Deep in the ribs. No logic. No buildup. Just certainty.
It’s another one. Corrupted, and it must be powerful.
Not inside you. Not whispering. But awake. Nearby. Breathing the same air. Watching.
You don’t wait. “We go now.”
Jill doesn’t move. She’s torn, you can see it. That scream she heard—that cry for help—is still echoing in her.
But you step closer. “If we wait, it spreads. Like it did to me. Like it did to Jordanna.”
Andrew joins you. “You’ve got the light,” he says. “That means you can end this.”
You see it land on her like weight. Not just belief—expectation.
She closes her eyes.
Then nods.
You turn right.
The trees tighten around you like teeth. The air thickens. And somewhere up ahead, something waits with your shape in its mouth.
This time, you’re not running from it.
You’re running toward it.
Boon
You don’t say anything.
Not because you agree. Just because you don’t think they’re listening anymore.
Cowin and Andrew are already moving ahead, quick and focused, like they’re being pulled. Jill follows, but she’s slower. Her mouth is tight. Her arms hang heavy at her sides. She doesn’t look like someone who made a decision.
She looks like someone who ran out of choices.
You walk behind them, half a step behind Jill, one hand still pressed to your side where the pain never quite leaves. The jungle is wet, dense, wrong. Everything feels like it’s sweating. The leaves shine like plastic. The air tastes like old blood and moss.
You’ve never been here, but your body remembers it anyway.
The same pressure you felt in the sand is here — not loud, not screaming, just… turning. A slow churn. Like something old is watching you through the bark.
You try not to think about the hands that dragged you under.
You try not to remember the way the sand closed around your ankles like hands, the way your body went still, the way your heart didn’t stop but listened. Like it knew something deeper was calling.
You saw them — thousands of them. Twisting. Melting. Faces pressed against faces. Not corpses. Not souls. Ingredients. And at the center: a hollow mouth shaped like purpose.
You don’t know what’s controlling them.
But you know what’s waiting.
Jill cleansed Cowin and Andrew. You saw it happen. You felt it happen. She held nothing back, and she pulled them out of whatever pit they were falling into. And now they want to walk straight into another one — dragging her behind like a torch.
That’s not what she’s for.
You limp faster for a few paces until you’re closer to her. She doesn’t look at you. Just keeps walking.
You want to say something. Ask her if she’s okay. Ask her if this is really where she wants to go. But her face is pale. Not scared. Not confused. Just… resigned.
Like someone walking towards her own funeral.
You look ahead. Cowin’s already vanishing into the trees. Andrew close behind. The space between you is getting longer. The heat is rising.
And then you think of Mayo.
The way her eyes changed before her mind did. The way she smiled at you like she didn’t know your name. The way her skin glowed blue and her voice deepened and her body moved like it wasn’t hers anymore.
You remember swinging the burning log.
You remember her running.
You remember she was already gone.
You clench your fists. Breathe through the pain.
You don’t know if this is the same kind of danger. But the air smells just like it did before the storm — full of lies.
You’re not strong enough to stop them. But you’re not letting Jill go through this alone. Not again. Not like Mayo.
So you keep walking.
Slower than the others. But steadier.
And as the trees close around you and the last light fades from the path behind, you whisper it under your breath like a promise:
Not again. You won’t let it happen again.
Andrew
God, it feels good to be you again.
You didn’t even realize how loud the island got until it shut up. The static. The twitching. The voice under your voice. All gone. Like someone vacuumed out the echo chamber in your skull and left just you inside.
For the first time since the wreck, you’re alone with yourself. And you’re not that bad a companion.
Jill did that.
She touched something deep and ugly and burned it out of you. You can still feel the residue of her light in your spine, like a spine that grew back. You should thank her. You probably will.
Later.
Right now, you’re walking toward something that made her necessary in the first place.
The jungle squeezes tighter the farther you go. Trees lean like they’re eavesdropping. The mud grabs at your boots like it wants to know your name. Cowin is up ahead, quiet, determined, and frankly, a little bit cracked — which is ironic for a guy who just got his brain back.
You don’t mind. He’s motivated. You like that.
Behind you, you hear Boon’s slow drag of steps. The limp. The weight. The guilt. He still smells like burned wood and sad poetry. Jill walks somewhere between, quiet as a held breath.
You want to look back. But you don’t.
She’s coming. That’s what matters.
You grin. Not big. Just enough to stretch the corners of your mouth.
You’ve got a weapon now.
Not a knife. Not a gun. Something better. Jill.
She walked through hell, woke up glowing, and cured two half-broken wrecks without breaking stride. You watched Cowin go from trembling mess to grim reaper in thirty seconds flat. And you? You’ve never felt more in control.
That’s the trick, isn’t it? The island plays in whispers and shadows. But Jill is sunlight. And now she’s walking behind you, a loaded miracle, and the thing that infected you is just up ahead.
You don’t need to guess. You can feel it.
Same weight as the ship. Same temperature. That sour taste behind your teeth. The rot is familiar. Which means it can be tracked. Hunted.
“Hey,” you call to Cowin. “Think if we get close enough, it’ll recognize us?”
He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t answer.
Typical.
You pick up the pace anyway. You don’t want Jill to catch up yet. Not because you’re scared. You just want to see it first—and then you freeze.
There. Through the trees.
A bunker. Cement and rust and heavy hinges. The entrance gapes like a mouth.
And someone’s standing in front of it.
You blink. Once. Twice.
Bryan.
He’s just standing there. Watching the door. Like he’s waiting for something.
And at his feet—
Wait.
What the hell is that?
Jill
They think you’re following them.
You are. Technically. Your feet move when they move. Your shadow curls through the vines behind Cowin’s shoulders. But it’s not obedience. It’s not agreement. It’s just… gravity. You gave them a nod, and now they’re orbiting around it like it was a command.
It wasn’t.
It was surrender.
You didn’t want to go this way.
You wanted to follow the scream. You felt the pain in it—real, human pain. The kind that comes from loss. The kind that always comes too late. The kind you recognize, because you felt it when Jordanna vanished beneath the sand. You still see her face when you blink. Still feel the throb in your palm where the light burst too bright, too fast.
You felt another wave ripple from the left. A boom that cracked the trees and made your skin hum wrong. You didn’t see what happened there—but the air afterward felt hollowed-out. Like the world had held its breath too long and someone important never came back. You never met Andrea. But something in the jungle changed shape when she disappeared.
And still—they convinced you this was the right direction. The awakening. The source. The place where light must meet shadow.
But now you’re here… and something’s off.
The jungle feels brittle. Not just quiet—numb. The island used to breathe with you. Now it stares. The trees lean like witnesses too afraid to speak. The roots coil like they’re drawing a line you shouldn’t cross.
Your light flickers. Not out. Not yet. But it doesn’t rise like it did before. It lingers, heavy, hesitant. Not because you fear what’s ahead—but because you fear what they’ll ask of you when you get there.
Cowin walks like a man chasing his own shadow. Andrew walks like he’s already won. They think you’re a torch. Something they can point at the dark and burn it clean.
But this isn’t what you’re for.
You’re not a weapon. You’re not a cure. You’re not the answer to a riddle they barely understand. You’re trying to be a healer. Someone who listens. Someone who stays when others run.
You slow your steps.
Because ahead of you—far, far to the east—you feel something pulling. A heartbeat in the roots. A thread in your chest. Someone is there. Someone you don’t remember, but miss like your own. The ache of absence wraps around your ribs.
They need you.
And they’re in the same direction as the darkness that Cowin and Andrew convinced you to follow.
Then the trees thin. The air breaks. And you step into a clearing.
A bunker is there. Concrete. Sterile. Wrong. And in front of it: a man.
You’ve never seen him before.
But your stomach coils on sight.
He glows blue.
Not sickly. Not faded. Sharp. Artificial. Like a warning light on a machine about to detonate. You know this color. You’ve seen it in eyes, in storms, in the cracks of things just before they fall apart.
This man has that glow inside him.
And at his feet—oh.
It shouldn’t be alive. It shouldn’t have shape. But it pulses. Shifts. Something under the skin breathes, and it doesn’t breathe air. You can’t tell where it begins and ends.
Your light recoils.
Cowin and Andrew stop. They stare like they’ve spotted an old friend on the wrong side of a fire.
But this isn’t what woke up. Not the thing you felt in the jungle. The real awakening is still ahead. Further east. Closer to that thread tugging at your ribs.
You glance that way. Just once.
And for a moment—just a breath—you think you hear a name on the wind. But it’s gone before you can catch it. Like everything else this island takes.
You look back to the bunker. And you wonder:
If they keep pulling you toward darkness…
…how long before you forget what the light felt like?
Email me your decisions at mike.hamilton2010@gmail.com
Cowin, Boon, Andrew & Jill’s Options
- Confront Bryan at the Bunker: The blue glow around him is wrong. You know it. Maybe you can burn it out. Maybe you can save what’s left. Face him. Use what you’ve been given. Cleanse the taint, or be consumed by it.
- Go Back Toward the Battlecry: Someone cried out—raw and real. A true voice, not a trap. You should’ve gone then. You can go now. Turn back. Follow the pain before it’s too late. Help Jill’s ally before the island swallows them whole.
- Continue East Toward the Darkness: The real threat—the true awakening—still waits further east. You feel it stronger now. Like a string inside your chest being pulled tighter. This is where the island bends. This is where the darkness grows. Walk toward it… before it finds someone else.
Part 6: Beyond The Door
(Michelle)
Michelle
You don’t hesitate. Not this time.
The crater glows cold beneath you, threads of blue spiraling through stone like veins under sick skin. The air tastes like metal. Wrong. And you can feel the Bloodwood roots, humming beneath your heels—alive, aware, waiting for your command.
You made your choice for a reason. You don’t think the voice falters often, and this might be your only chance to strike before it coils back into silence. You could’ve withdrawn, found allies, but they have their own battles. Maybe the island brought you here for this. Maybe this is yours alone.
So you plant your feet. You call the power upward.
The ground responds—slow at first, then thrumming. Roots twist beneath the soil, seeking a wound. Your breath leaves you in a gasp. Sap sharpens in your veins. You press your hands to the dirt and push.
The island answers.
A jolt rips through your chest. The Bloodwood strikes—not as a blast, but a memory sharpened into a weapon. Every truth the island ever showed you, screamed into the earth. The ground convulses. The crater pulses bright white-blue, then falters. You feel it stumble.
And then—
It bites back.
The cliff beneath you shatters. Blue veins rip through the stone, writhing like tendons torn from a corpse. You fall, tumbling into blinding light. Cold crashes over you like ice water inside your skin. The roots try to hold on—but they snap.
Fungus explodes from the walls, pulsing, churning, alive. Your scream catches in your throat as the world falls upward—and then stops.
You hover.
Suspended above a sea of undulating blue. The crater’s walls ripple, lined with glowing arteries. Every pulse echoes with an invisible heartbeat—his. The cold here is deeper than bone. It moves through you like a second bloodstream, turning your thoughts to frost.
And the island? It’s fading. You can feel it slipping from your skin. Not gone, but weaker. Drained.
“That was brave,” the voice says, and it doesn’t sound angry. Just… disappointed. “But brave is rarely wise.”
You grit your teeth. “You flinched.”
A pause. Then amusement, thin and sharp.
“I did. You found the fracture. The moment. Very clever.”
The light pulses. One beat. Two. The pressure wraps tighter around your ribs.
“But you have no idea what you just touched.”
You don’t answer. You don’t blink.
“You think you’re fighting a sickness.” The voice warms, thickens. “You’re not. You’re resisting a cure.”
A soft, soundless beat vibrates through the air. Below, the blue light churns—slower now, almost calm.
“There was a time before I came to this island. Your tree came first, and it brought chaos. Death without purpose. Suffering without shape. I gave the island shape.”
A thousand sparks flare in the blue below, like distant stars. Or simulations running.
“They forget that. The ones who came before you. The ones who screamed for freedom but never knew what to do with it.”
You clench your fists, but you don’t move. Not yet.
“Every time the system ran, it improved. A little cleaner. A little more efficient. You—you’re the closest anyone’s come to understanding it.”
More half-truths. More poison wrapped in praise.
“Then why not just end it?” you say, quietly. “If it’s running so well.”
“Because you’re still here.” The voice softens. “And because someone—something—keeps breaking it from the inside.”
That gives you pause. The roots that still try to fight, even now. The island still resists. But he speaks of it like a defect.
“You think the island is purity. That power means life. But it is only chaos rewritten in softer light. It delays the end. That’s all.”
Your breath frosts in front of you.
He shifts again.
“You want to know why you were brought here?”
You don’t answer.
“Because you could survive what they could not. Because you could learn. Adapt. Choose.”
The walls brighten with every word. Each pulse a syllable. Each beat a temptation.
“I could show you what lies beyond the door. Let you walk through it. Alone. Free. You wouldn’t even have to see them die.”
Something in you aches. Not from the cold—but from wanting.
“You’d let me leave?”
“Yes. If that’s what you want.”
“You survived your tests. You changed the simulation. You took your power from the island. You showed courage most don’t. You earned the right to go.”
It sounds so simple. Too simple.
And yet…
Your limbs are numb. Your breath is shallow. The Bloodwood is quiet now, as if even it isn’t sure what you should do. You want to go home.
And still, he hasn’t hurt you. Not really.
He’s letting you choose.
And you don’t know what scares you more:
That he’s lying…
Or that he isn’t.
Email me your decisions at mike.hamilton2010@gmail.com
Michelle’s Options:
- Fight With the Last of Your Strength: Call on the Bloodwood again. Refuse him. You may not win, but you’ll leave a mark he can’t erase.
- Try to Buy Time With Another Question: Keep him talking. Ask something deeper. Something he hasn’t said yet. You’re not ready to choose—but you might still learn more before you do.
- Give In and Choose Survival: Stop fighting. Admit that maybe he’s right—this is a game, and your survival matters more than anything else. If escape is real, maybe it’s the only way out.
Vibe Check
The storms have calmed momentarily. But the worst is yet to come…
Survivor Hamilton 
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