The transport plane rattled violently as it descended, alarms blaring in a chaotic symphony. You, shackled to your seat, felt every jarring tremor, every twist of metal screaming against the wind. The guards were shouting orders, their panic thick in the air, but there was nothing they could do. The engines gave out with a deafening roar, and the plane plummeted.

When you came to, the world was eerily silent, save for the crackling of distant flames and the faint chirp of insects. You blinked, your body aching from the crash, and looked around. The plane was a twisted wreck, pieces of it strewn across the flat field. You were alive—while everyone else were dead, there was blood. Then a guy caught your eye. He was still alive coughing

The pilot lay a few feet away, his uniform stained red with blood. His face was pale, and a nasty wound on his side was seeping through his shirt. Shackles still bound your wrists, but the crash had weakened them enough for you to break free.