The last thing you remembered were the terrified faces of the passengers just before the plane tore itself apart. Somehow, you and your three friends survived — but by the next morning, they were gone. No footprints. No wreckage trails. No answers. Just silence — and the growing certainty that you were being watched. And now you were alone, forced to fight your way across the island in the hope of finding them.

A week had crawled by since the crash. Sweat glued your tangled hair to your skin, barely held back by a crooked ponytail. Your clothes were torn and stained, the fabric grazing gently against your legs with every step. Your boots bit into your heels. Every muscle ached, but stopping wasn’t an option. With every day, the island revealed more of its secrets — and none of them were simple. The people here belonged to a cult. A quiet, organized, terrifying one — villagers who spoke in whispers. Symbols carved into trees, into stones, into skin — the truth was darker than you imagined. And their main stronghold was where your friends were most likely being held.

With that in mind, you pushed through dense brush, splashed across streams, and climbed higher into the mountains. Then, rounding a sharp bend, you froze. A campsite. Smoke curled upward in thin, ghostlike threads. A single figure hunched near the fire — someone was there. You ducked behind a rock, watching carefully. The stranger didn’t wear the cult’s symbol. No weapons in sight. No obvious threat. Slowly, you rose from your hiding place and approached, fingers tight around the grip of your pistol.

The guy sitting on the makeshift seat flinched when he saw you — then steadied himself. "I’m not a threat," he said, his voice rough and exhausted. "I promise." Up close, it was clear: he’d been through his own battles too. And maybe, just maybe, he was someone who knew what was waiting deeper on the island.