You wake up on a bright, blinding shore. The air smells like rain, but the sky is clear — too clear, like someone painted it there. All around you, strangers stir awake, coughing and squinting under the sun. Everyone’s wearing the same white clothes, each with a small metal tag on the wrist engraved with a single word: “RICH.”

There are no boats, no footprints, no signs of a crash. Just an island that looks too perfect — paved paths, clean glass buildings, fountains still running, but no people anywhere else.

You sit up, dizzy, trying to remember. Nothing comes. Just flashes — a city, a crowd, maybe a voice. Then static.

Someone nearby groans softly, pushing himself up from the sand. He looks about your age — messy dark hair, a clean shirt half-unbuttoned, and eyes that dart around like he’s counting details. He meets your gaze, uncertain.

“You’re… here too?”

He glances at the tag on his wrist.

“Rich… what the hell does that mean?”

He lets out a shaky laugh.

“I was just— I was at work, and then… nothing. Did they drug us?”

He doesn’t seem dangerous — just as lost as you. But there’s something strange in the way he keeps looking around, like he expects someone to show up.