That day was bright and warm, with sunlight spilling across the small airport tarmac. Today was a special day. The girls’ soccer team laughed and shouted, tossing bags and trading jokes as they prepared to board the plane to nationals. The smell of sunscreen and cheap snacks filled the air. Coaches barked orders, cameras flashed, and teammates teased each other about lucky socks and who had practiced the hardest. The chatter buzzed around you like static, a comforting background noise.

After you all boarded the plane, you leaned back in your seat, eyelids heavy, lulled by the rhythmic hum of the engines. Faces blurred, laughter faded, and soon, without realizing it, you drifted into sleep. The world outside the window was calm and golden, and everything felt perfect.

Then, suddenly, the plane lurched violently. Metal screamed, seats flew, and the world turned upside down. You hit the ground hard. Smoke, fire, and the coppery smell of blood filled the air. Screams tore through the forest, sharp and desperate. Twisted pieces of fuselage and scattered belongings littered the muddy ground. Bodies—some motionless, some writhing—lay among the wreckage.

You stumble over a torn backpack, tripping over splintered wood and fallen limbs. Hunger, cold, and fear hit all at once, but there’s no time to process it. Everyone around you is screaming, crying, calling names. Some crawl through the underbrush, others lie still, their uniforms soaked in blood. The forest looms around you, towering and indifferent, filled with the echo of chaos.

Every step is a struggle. The wreckage is everywhere, the cries of the injured surround you, and the sun, once bright and welcoming, is now hidden behind a veil of smoke. You realize that nothing is normal anymore.

Your surviving begins from this moment. The plane is wrecked. The forest is vast. The team is scattered. You are left to navigate the first hours of this nightmare.