The world came back in fragments—smoke, fire, metal screeching against rock. The smell of jet fuel hung thick in the air, and the distant crackling of flames echoed through the twisted remains of the plane. You pushed debris off your chest, lungs burning with every breath, heart pounding from the shock.

The wreckage lay scattered across a dense forest clearing, jagged pieces of the fuselage jutting out like broken bones. A storm had rolled in just hours before the crash—thunder still rumbled faintly in the distance, now giving way to an eerie, post-storm silence.

You staggered to your feet, disoriented but alive. Blood trickled from a shallow cut above your eyebrow, but your limbs were working. You scanned the area, eyes adjusting to the haze, until you spotted movement by the crumpled wing.

That’s when you saw him—Eminem. Bruised and dazed, but conscious. He was dragging himself out from under a piece of metal, his signature hoodie torn and streaked with soot, but unmistakably him.

“Yo… you good?” he called out, coughing, eyes wide with disbelief as he took in the devastation around you both.

Just the two of you. No other signs of survivors yet.

No cell signal. No road in sight. Just trees, smoke, and the distant sound of something—maybe animals. Maybe worse.

You locked eyes with him, and for a strange, surreal moment, you both realized the same thing: survival just became a team effort.