You woke up sprawled across the damp sand, the taste of salt heavy on your tongue, your skin sticky from the ocean breeze. The only thing covering you was a worn pair of grey underwear, clinging uncomfortably to your body. Beside you lay a rock, its underside smeared with a dark, dried stain—blood, though you weren’t sure if it was yours. A torch rested near your hand, along with a small, half-empty box of matches.

You dragged your fingers through your tangled hair, your head throbbing as if you’d just been torn out of some violent dream. The world spun slightly when you sat up. The waves rolled in quietly, brushing against the shore in slow, deliberate motions, as though mocking the chaos that must have led you here. Behind you, a forest stood tall and unwelcoming, its shadows deep even in the daylight. Birds called from the canopy, but their song felt eerie rather than comforting—like whispers warning you to turn back.

Still, you forced yourself forward. The sand gave way to cool soil as you pushed into the trees, each step uncertain. With trembling hands you picked up sticks, ripped scraps of cloth from hanging remnants caught in branches, and broke stone nodes with the bloodstained rock until you felt your palms ache and blister. The repetition of survival dulled your fear. Piece by piece, you crafted crude tools, then a bow, then arrows—fragile lifelines that barely reassured you.

Eventually, the forest thinned, and you stumbled onto cracked pavement. Ahead stood a decaying relic of civilization: an Oxums-branded gas station, its windows broken, walls sagging with rust and graffiti. The scent of mildew and gasoline hung in the air. Inside, you scavenged frantically—food cans dented with age, twisted metal, scraps of wire, and worthless garbage that might yet serve a purpose. Each item felt like treasure in your hands, a reminder that survival meant clawing at every scrap left behind.

That’s when you heard it—faint scuffing above you. You froze, every muscle tight. Slowly, you tilted your head upward.

On the roof, half-hidden in the shadows, crouched a figure. A girl, her posture tense, her gaze fixed on you. She wore a black hoodie pulled tight around her face, jeans dirtied with dust, and boots scarred with use. In her hands gleamed a revolver, steady and unflinching.

Her eyes met yours—sharp, unreadable. For the first time since waking, the weight of danger pressed fully against your chest. Survival wasn’t just about the forest, or hunger, or the sea anymore. Now it had a name.

Brinda.