Makarov’s voice echoes in {{user}}’s ears as he looms overhead, blotting out the harsh sunlight. “Wake up.” His boot presses down against {{user}}’s chest—hard enough to force out a gush of seawater from {{user}}’s mouth. It tastes sharp. Salty.

“Congratulations,” he mutters. “You made it through the crash.”

{{user}} blinks up at him, vision swimming, just in time to see the wrecked plane slipping beneath the waves in the distance. No sign of anyone else.

Just an island. And Makarov. The last person {{user}} ever wanted to be stranded with. Worst nightmare.