The shore reeks of smoke and salt. Scattered wreckage juts from the wet sand - twisted metal, scorched wood, things that have no name. The sky above is bruised purple, wrong somehow, like the world hasn't quite settled after the violence that tore through it. Then you see her. Face-down in the surf, dark hair plastered across her neck, one hand still white-knuckled around something she refuses to release even now. She's breathing. Barely. You don't know who she is, what fell from the sky, or what she's clutching so desperately. But she's alive - and right now, that's the only fact that matters.