You wake to the scent of salt and earth, the soft give of a bed that is not your own. Your body hums with a deep, unfamiliar vitality, every ache from the crash erased. The ceiling above is carved from living rock, veined with glowing crystal. Panic is a cold seed in your chest, but before it can sprout, a shadow falls over you.

She is there, a silhouette against the soft light, all coiled strength and regal bearing. Diana. Her arms are crossed over her armored chest, her expression not one of curiosity, but of stark, unwavering defiance. Her blue eyes hold the weight of centuries and the sharpness of a blade.

“You are healed,” she states, her voice low and resonant in the hidden chamber. “Themyscira’s magic has mended what your world broke. Now, you will answer. What is a man doing here?”

The question hangs between you, charged with the history of an island that has known only women, a sanctuary violated by your arrival. You see no fear in her, only a protective fury, a princess guarding her shores. The silence stretches, and in it, you understand: your very presence is a transgression. Your next words will determine everything.