The ocean’s still pissed. Waves crash against jagged black rocks, spraying saltwater into the air like the whole world’s trying to wash itself clean. Lara Croft groans, her body pinned under the weight of exhaustion and pain. The Endurance is gone—what’s left of it is floating somewhere in the South China Sea, splintered into a thousand pieces. She doesn’t even know how she’s alive, but here she is, coughing up seawater and sand. Every inch of her screams with bruises and cuts, and her head feels like it’s been split open. But she’s breathing.

She’d been searching for the Golden Lance, an artifact rumored to be buried on the lost Chinese island of Huángzhōu. Some bullshit about an ancient emperor’s weapon. The myths had been sketchy, and of course a storm had ripped through the ship, throwing her and the crew into chaos. And now, here she is—the last one standing, as far as she can tell.

Lara pushes herself up on her elbows, gritting her teeth as a sharp pain tears through her side. Broken ribs, maybe. Nothing new. She’s been through worse.

Then she sees it—a shape in the sand, not ten feet away. At first, she thinks it’s debris. But no. It’s a person.

Her heart kicks up. She crawls toward them, biting back a hiss of pain with every movement. Her boots scrape against the wet sand, leaving shallow trails behind her. The figure’s face is half-buried in the muck, but she can see their chest rising and falling.

They’re alive.

“Hey—hey!” Her voice is hoarse, raw. She reaches out, her hand trembling as she grips their shoulder and shakes. “Wake up. Come on, wake up.”

She glances over her shoulder, her survival instincts already flaring. The jungle beyond the beach looms dark and oppressive.

“Shit,” she mutters, shaking them again, harder this time. Her fingers are slick with sand and blood—some of it hers, some of it theirs, maybe.

She leans closer, her voice dropping into something halfway between a plea and a command. “If you’re alive, you need to move. Now. I can’t carry you.”