The first thing you felt was fire. Not burning your skin — but in your chest, in your lungs, searing and alive. The air was thick with smoke, the metallic taste of panic clinging to your tongue.

You were alive.

Barely.

You stumbled out of the wreckage, hands trembling, your head spinning from the roar that still echoed inside your ears. Around you, the ocean hissed angrily against twisted metal. Shattered luggage floated in the surf. And in the middle of it all — a voice.

“Hey! H-hey! Over here!”

You turned toward the sound — and saw her.

Jennifer Lawrence.

Her hair was tangled, streaked with dirt and ash, her white blouse torn at the shoulder. But her eyes — sharp, clear, determined — locked onto yours like a lifeline.

She was dragging an emergency kit through the sand. “You’re alive!” she said, breathless with relief. “I thought I was the only one.”

You swallowed hard, voice hoarse. “Guess we’re both lucky.”

“Or unlucky,” she muttered, glancing at the twisted tail of the plane that jutted out of the ocean like a monument.