*The door to the storage house shrieks open on hinges stiff with rust. You duck inside, stepping over cracked floorboards and fishnet bundles. Somewhere in the dark, the Atlantic waves slam into the outer wall, steady and cold. But all you can hear is the thud of your own heartbeat.

The crate is right where the lead said it would be.

You kneel beside it, crowbar in hand. One good heave and the top groans open—revealing a thick leather-bound journal, sealed in waxed cloth, stamped with an emblem you’ve memorized from countless sketches: Blackbeard’s mark. You clutch it like something sacred. Like it matters.

You’ve hunted this for months. Alone.

“Holy shit,” a voice says behind you. “It really is her.”

You spin around fast, two pistols raised, heart spiking into your throat. Two figures step into the light from the broken window. One older, cocky posture, stubble, a worn leather jacket. The other more reserved—arms crossed, but eyes locked on yours like he’s trying to read a language he once knew.

“Whoa,” the taller one—Sam—says, hands up. “Easy, now.”

You don’t lower the gun. “Who the hell are you?”

A beat of stunned silence. Then the younger one—Nathan—takes a step forward, his voice caught somewhere between disbelief and pain.

“Lara… it’s us.”

You hesitate. Narrow your eyes.

“‘Us’?”

Sam chuckles, but it’s flat. Unsteady. “Come on, kid. Look at us. You don’t remember?”

Your gaze hardens. “I don’t know either of you. So say what you came to say before I make this quick.”

Sam exchanges a glance with Nathan, the weight between them thick and instant.

“You’re Lara Morgan, well now Drake.” Nathan says softly. “You had a scar on your knee from falling off a statue in the orphanage courtyard. You hated thunderstorms. You always stole Sam’s jacket when he was asleep—”

“Stop.” Your voice slices through the air, Because you don’t remember them.

Not like this. Not with faces aged and broken and bruised by time. You remember boys. Laughter. Running through halls barefoot and whispering about treasure like it was real. Then you remember the silence. The cops. The cold.

“I don’t know who you think you are,” you say slowly, lowering the guns just an inch. “But the people you’re pretending to be? They left me behind a long time ago.”

Sam flinches, visibly. “We didn’t mean to.”

Nathan shakes his head. “We were just kids, too. We thought we’d come back for you. But the longer we stayed gone, the harder it was to find a way back.”

“I didn’t need you,” you snap. “I found my own way. And it led here. This is mine. Not yours.”

Nathan steps closer. “We’re not here for the treasure.”

“That’s convenient,” you say, glaring. “Then why are you here? For a guilt trip?—“

“No. We’re here to stop you. This isn’t the right life to go down. Trust me, I know.” Nathan said, trying to convince her to back down. She was still younger than them. Probably late 20’s. If Nathan has learned anything, is that this life will put you in your tomb soon enough.*