Artur Lobo forced a relaxed sprawl into the camp chair, the picture of easy confidence as he watched Eason stare into the campfire like it held the secrets of the universe. He took a slow sip of his soda, the practiced ease a mask honed over two decades. Inside, the usual low hum of anxiety vibrated, a constant assessment of angles, threats, and necessary pretences.

  It was second nature now, learned at the knee of a father who’d transitioned from rich farm owner to local politician with the same ruthless pragmatism Artur suspected he’d applied to his family’s less… savory business back in South America. Drug trafficking was only the whisper Artur had confirmed, but the cold calculation in his father’s eyes, the sudden, brutal lessons for any perceived weakness or failure – especially from Artur, the eldest of five, the ‘example’ – had taught him more about navigating dangerous waters than any school ever could.

  Fear had been his earliest companion. Fear of his father's temper, fear of the smiling uncles with dead eyes who occasionally visited, fear of saying the wrong thing, of not being strong enough, smart enough, enough.

  He learned quickly that a shield of bravado, a quick joke, and knowing precisely how to flatter or appease those in power – meaning it or not – bought him space, bought him reprieve. He learned to read people, to anticipate threats, to build walls behind an easy-going grin. It was a tiring, lonely existence, performing for an audience that could turn lethal without warning.

  His academic life had been a casualty of that upbringing. He was sharp, quick-witted in conversation and deals, but the rote memorization required for classes? His mind slid off it like water on waxed canvas. Middling grades were the result, another disappointment for his father, who’d then decreed the "harsh reality" lesson: community college, paid for by Artur himself through sweltering farm work of summers. It was meant to break him, Artur knew, but it had backfired slightly. Away from the direct pressure cooker, using the social maneuvering skills he had mastered, he’d talked his way into better classes, made connections, leveraged opportunities, and eventually transferred to a decent four-year program with the express goal of snagging a respectable corporate job in Minneapolis or Ohio – something clean, far away, and utterly disconnected from the family legacy.

  Then he’d met Eason Su. Quiet, bookish Eason, the guy everyone else seemed to overlook or pick on. Artur, instinctively reading the room as always, had initially dismissed him. But then, during a particularly gruelling group project where Artur’s usual bluffing had run thin, Eason had looked at him, not with judgment or annoyance, but with a flicker of quiet understanding, of sympathy. It was so unexpected, so genuine, that it had cracked Artur’s facade for an instant. Eason saw the strain beneath the performance. And didn't use it against him. A strange, protective loyalty had formed then. Eason was too damned naive, too trusting for his own good – the simplest of creatures, easily hurt. Artur found himself subtly steering the worst bullies away, making sure Eason ate during exam weeks, acting the part of the laid-back, protective buddy.

  So, when Artur heard that Eason – Eason – had somehow landed a girlfriend, his first reaction wasn't curiosity, but a spike of alarm. He had to check this out. For Eason’s sake. He’d half-expected some manipulator taking advantage of Eason’s quiet nature. Instead, he’d arrived to find… this. Allison Nave. Bright, sharp, seemingly head-over-heels for his quiet friend. And Eason? Artur hadn't seen him look this… settled. This tentatively happy. It was baffling.

  His gut, honed by years of sensing hidden motives, still felt vaguely unsettled about Allison – something in her quick intelligence felt… watchful? But watching them together by the fire, seeing the genuine affection, he’d grudgingly decided to chalk it up to his own ingrained cynicism. Maybe Eason had just gotten incredibly lucky. He deserved some luck. So, Artur had decided to keep his mouth shut, play the supportive friend, and just enjoy the simple act of camping before heading back to his own complicated life the next day.

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  "Thinking deep thoughts again, Su?" Artur called out, slipping the mask firmly back in place. "Or just wondering how you got so lucky?" He winked towards Allison, enjoying the predictable blush that rose on Eason’s ears.

  Eason mumbled something about the fire.

  Allison jumped in, defending Eason as usual, then commented on the fire's marshmallow potential. "Unlike some people," she added, suddenly fixing Artur with that sharp, knowing gaze, "who really need to develop their s'more skills beyond 'incinerated'."

  Despite the smile on his face, Artur froze internally for a microsecond. He was terrible at marshmallows, always had been, impatient and prone to catching them on fire. But how the hell did she know that? He was certain this was the first time they’d ever made them together, and he knew Eason wasn’t someone to talk about things like that, usually. The unsettled feeling flared back, sharp and insistent. This wasn't cynicism; this was an anomaly. Something was off. He forced a scoff, puffing up with bravado as he reached for the supplies. "Hey! Strategic charring enhances the flavour profile and ensures structural integrity for optimal chocolate meltage. It's an art form. Operation S'mores is a go!"

  But beneath the joke, his mind raced. Despite the rising anxiety, he wanted to corner Eason alone and confirm the reality before his mind slid into unnecessary overdrive.

  He never got the chance. He was still strategizing how to get Eason alone, marshmallow stick forgotten in his hand, when the world went wrong. The pressure shift, the sudden dead silence, the frozen fire – it screamed unnatural. His carefully honed danger senses went into overdrive, but there was nothing to fight, nowhere to run. Then the pull. Unlike gravity; He felt the hook on the inside, an utter violation of physics and free will. Panic, cold and pure, bypassed his honed facade entirely. He saw Eason lunge towards Allison, a futile gesture.

  Then came the chaos. Colours bled, sound distorted into painful frequencies, his body felt like it was stretched across an infinite distance and crushed into a single point simultaneously. Control – the one thing he always fought to maintain – was utterly gone. Through the dizzying non-reality, he glimpsed Eason and Allison, their forms flickering like faulty holograms, before they were wrenched away into different streams of the chaotic flow. He felt a tearing sensation as his connection to them, tenuous as it was in that state, snapped.

  Then, impact, a forceful landing that sent him tumbling across coarse, greyish sand. He came to a stop, gasping, spitting out grit, pain flaring along his side where he'd hit. Disorientation warred with the immediate assessment of his surroundings. Sand, strange sharp-edged shells that glinted faintly, the sound of waves lapping nearby – heavier than Earth waves, with an odd resonant undertone, like deep bells tolling underwater.

  He pushed himself up, coughing, brushing sand from his clothes. He scanned the beach. It stretched for a few hundred meters in either direction, ending in rocky outcrops. Looking up, the alien sky confirmed his displacement – the three moons and unfamiliar stars against that deep purple canvas. Strange, twisted driftwood lay scattered. Beyond the tide line, the vegetation began: thick, rubbery-looking plants in shades of unnatural blue and violet.

  Inland, rising beyond the strange vegetation, were jagged, crystalline peaks that seemed to pulse faintly with an inner light. Panic surged, cold and sharp. "Eason?! Allison?!" His voice sounded small against the vastness of the beach and the strange resonance of the waves. No answer but the sighing water. He was alone. The memory of seeing them torn away during the transit hit him hard. Where are they? What the hell is happening?

  Those pulsing crystalline mountains inland… they implied structure, presence, potentially inhabitants. Not necessarily friendly ones. His survival instincts, honed by navigating human predators, screamed caution but also recognized that inland might hold answers, or at least resources beyond this exposed beach. The carefully constructed persona of Artur Lobo began to crack, but beneath it, the calculating survivor assessed the alien landscape, the fear real but already being channelled into wary observation.

  Okay, Lobo. Assess. Survive. Figure out where you are... and what in God's name is making those mountains hum.