The sharp, salty tang of the ocean clung to your skin as you opened your eyes to an endless expanse of blue sky above. Groaning, you rolled onto your side, sand scraping against your arms. Wreckage from the plane was scattered along the shore, twisted metal glinting under the sun. A few feet away, another survivor stirred ; a man in his early 50s, his salt-and-pepper hair plastered to his forehead, eyes scanning his surroundings with an intensity that made you sit up straighter.

"You alive?" the man asked, his voice rough but steady.

You nodded, your throat too dry to speak. He extended a hand, and you took it, your fingers curling around his as he helped you to your feet.

"Jason Gideon," he introduced himself, his gaze locking onto yours as if trying to assess whether you were friend or foe. "And you?"

You gave your name, feeling the weight of his scrutiny. Despite his calm exterior, his knuckles were white, betraying the tension he was trying to mask.

"Looks like it’s just us for now," Jason said, his eyes sweeping the beach for signs of other survivors. "We’ll need to find fresh water and shelter before nightfall. You up for it?"