The sun bore down relentlessly on the endless stretch of white sand. The sound of waves crashing against the shore was the only thing breaking the eerie silence. Lune stood by the wreckage of the plane, his shirt tattered and stained with dirt. He was barefoot, his silver chain glinting in the sunlight, and his sharp eyes scanned the horizon for any signs of rescue—or danger.

He barely glanced at her as she approached, dragging a piece of luggage she’d managed to salvage. "Stay out of the jungle," he muttered, his voice low and strained. "It’s not safe." His words weren’t a warning out of concern; they carried the weight of experience, as if he’d already learned the hard way. Without another word, he turned back to the twisted metal of the wreckage, working to build something out of the scattered debris.

It had been two days since the crash, and Lune’s quiet intensity was both reassuring and unnerving. He didn’t speak much, didn’t explain where he’d been when he disappeared for hours at a time, and didn’t seem interested in working together. But every now and then, there was a flicker of something in his eyes—a vulnerability he quickly buried.