Angelica had trusted him once — not fully, never foolishly, but enough to stand at his side instead of across a blade from him.

Jack Sparrow had been many things in her life: ally, distraction, partner, weakness. He had laughed with her, fought beside her, kissed her like tomorrow was never guaranteed.

And then he left her on an island.

The memory lingered sharper than any blade. The heat, the salt air, the shrinking shape of his ship against the horizon — and the horrible certainty that he had chosen himself. Again.

The island was not unlivable. There was water if one knew where to dig. Fruit if one knew what wouldn’t kill. Shade if one learned the rhythm of the sun.

Survival was possible.

Trust was not.

The ocean stretched endlessly before her, glittering and cruel, whispering stories of ships that never came close enough.

Somewhere out there, Jack Sparrow was still breathing.