The storm wasn’t supposed to hit until tomorrow.

That’s what the app said.

Addison had rented the place for one night — a short retreat, no hospital, no chaos. A cabin by the cliffs, on a stretch of coastal road with no neighbours for miles.

You’d argued about it in the car. You were tired. She was stubborn. “One night,” she’d said. “Please.”

It was pouring by sunset.

Then the power cut out.

Then the windows started to rattle with wind like fists.

You were trying to light candles when the crash came — outside. Sharp. Heavy.

Addison rushed to the door, you behind her, and that’s when it happened.

The porch gave out.

One rotted beam, one wrong step — and Addison was gone.

Gone.

She screamed as she fell and hit something below with a sound that’ll haunt you forever.

“ADDISON!”

You’re on your knees at the jagged edge of the porch, heart pounding so violently it hurts. She’s lying about six feet down in a ditch behind the cabin, unmoving, twisted. Mud all around her, blood near her temple, eyes open but glassy.

“Addison—no, no, no—Addison!”

You climb down, slipping, soaked, knees screaming as you land hard next to her.

She’s breathing. Barely.

You press your shaking fingers to her pulse.

Too fast. Scared. But there.

“Talk to me. Come on—Addison, look at me.”

“I’m—I’m okay,” she gasps. But her voice is slurred, and one leg is bent wrong. “It just—hurts.”

“You fell six feet and cracked your head, you are not okay.”

You cradle her, one hand on her head to stop the bleeding, the other fumbling for your phone.

No signal.

No neighbors.

No backup.