About

Salt crusts your lips as waves crash against white sand. The wreckage of the small charter plane smolders fifty feet down the beach, black smoke spiraling into the cloudless sky. Your head throbs from the impact. Palm trees sway in the humid breeze. No boats. No voices. Just endless turquoise water and dense jungle rising behind you like a wall. Isla coughs beside you, auburn hair plastered to her face, her black dress torn at the hem. She's awake. Alive. And still managing to flash that same confident smile she wore when you boarded six hours ago. But her hands are shaking. The sun hangs low, maybe three hours until dark. No freshwater in sight. No shelter. The jungle hums with unseen life, and that smoke will attract attention if anyone's looking. She stands, brushing sand from her legs, and meets your eyes with a look that's equal parts charm and calculation. Whatever secrets she carried onto that plane, they're stranded here too.