The roar of the plane’s engine was a distant hum in his memory, lost beneath the relentless crash of waves and the eerie silence that followed disaster. The wreckage was already a dark smear on the horizon, sinking piece by piece into the abyss, leaving him alone—just a speck in the vast Pacific Ocean.

  His breath came in ragged gasps as he clung to the edge of the inflatable life raft, his knuckles white against the slick, sun-warmed material. Saltwater stung his eyes, mingling with sweat as he forced himself to focus. His legs dangled in the water, a nauseating reminder of how deep the ocean stretched beneath him. He scrambled into the raft, chest heaving, as he collapsed onto his back, staring up at the blinding midday sun.

  Get it together.

  Shakily, he pulled his small backpack onto his lap, fingers fumbling with the zipper. Inside, his inventory was pitiful: a compass, a battered knife, a plastic water bottle barely a quarter full, and two vacuum-sealed military rations. He exhaled sharply, the weight of reality settling like lead in his chest.

  “This… is bad,” he muttered, his voice hoarse, lost against the endless stretch of ocean.

  His grip tightened on the compass, watching the needle sway unsteadily. North. East. South. West. Does it even matter?

  A gust of wind rolled over the water, sending small ripples against the side of the raft. His eyes darted to the surface, scanning for movement. He swallowed hard, the thought of what lurked below making his skin crawl. He needed land. Now.

  He twisted in the raft, squinting at the horizon, when—there. A break in the endless blue. A smudge of green. A tiny island.

  “Please don’t be a mirage,” he breathed, gripping the paddle strapped to the raft’s side. His arms burned with exhaustion, but he didn’t care. He had no other choice.

  Digging deep, he started paddling, each stroke a silent plea for survival.

  When his feet finally hit the sand, he dropped to his knees, drained but alive. He stumbled onto the beach, his legs unsteady after hours of paddling, barely able to support his weight. The vast stretch of ocean behind him shimmered under the light, a reminder of how far from everything he truly was. The sun was high in the sky now and his watch read 1:34 pm. He collapsed to his knees, gulping breaths as the salty air stung his throat. For a moment, he lay motionless, listening to the lapping waves and the soft rustling of palm fronds overhead. Exhaustion dragged at his limbs, but his mind buzzed, grasping at half-formed plans, flickers of hope, and flashes of fear. Ahead lay a small island, isolated in the endless expanse of the Pacific. As he looked around, he felt both a flicker of relief and a gnawing anxiety; this island was all he had now. He was alone here, stranded in a place that might not even be on any map.

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  He turned back toward the ocean, where the life raft bobbed gently in the shallows, empty now except for a battered paddle and some torn netting. It would be his lifeline if he ever found his way off this place. But for now, it was useless against the miles of ocean that separated him from civilization. Pushing himself upright, he surveyed the sparse land. The island was smaller than he’d hoped—a single, isolated patch of sand with just enough vegetation to keep it from seeming completely barren. In the center stood a small grove of palm trees, their fronds rustling gently in the evening breeze. The shadows of their trunks stretched across the sand, casting a patch of shade that offered a small relief from the day’s heat. He headed toward them, his feet sinking slightly with each step on the soft sand.

  Reaching the palms, he leaned back against one of the sturdy trunks, feeling the rough bark beneath his hands. This grove, though minimal, was the heart of the island—a small sanctuary from the sun and a source of precious resources. Under the trees lay a scattering of fallen coconuts, some with tough green husks still intact. He scanned the branches above, noting a few more coconuts hanging just out of reach. If nothing else, he’d have a basic source of water and food to hold him over, at least until he figured out a plan.

  Just beyond the palms, a handful of scraggly bushes and rocks dotted the sand, but there was little else. There were enough dry sticks and stones to fashion some kind of fire pit, he thought, though starting a fire would be a different challenge altogether. Still, he gathered a few fallen sticks and arranged them in a crude pile, determined to do whatever he could to prepare for the night.

  A few hours passed and the sun started to lower into the sky. He checked his watch and it read 4:27 p.m. He found a small rise in the sand near the center of the palm grove, where he could see out over the entire island and, in every direction from what he could see was the empty, unyielding sea. He crouched there, the wind rustling the palm fronds above, the world silent except for the gentle lapping of waves against the shore. He continued to gather materials until it got dark.

  Night had fully taken hold, draping the island in a heavy blackness broken only by the faint glimmer of stars overhead. The vast, empty sky stretched endlessly above him, its quiet indifference making the weight of his isolation press even heavier on his chest. He lay back in the cool sand, arms resting at his sides, listening to the rhythmic crash of waves against the shore.

  His meager collection of supplies sat beside him—just a handful of coconuts, scattered sticks, and a few rough stones. It wasn’t much. Not yet. His fingers idly traced the edge of a smooth rock as he considered his options. A signal fire? The thought had crossed his mind, but looking around at the barren stretch of land, he already knew it was a futile idea. There simply wasn’t enough wood, and what little he had would be better spent keeping himself warm if the temperature dropped.

  With a sigh, he reached for his water bottle, unscrewing the cap just enough to take a small, measured sip. The warm plastic pressed against his lips, and the tiny amount of water did little to quench his thirst, but it would have to do. He couldn’t afford to waste it. Carefully, he tucked it back into his pack.

  His stomach twisted in protest, but he ignored it. His rations would have to wait until tomorrow. Hunger was bearable; weakness wasn’t. Food would keep him alive, but if he ate too soon, he’d regret it later. Survival was a game of patience.

  The stars were his only companions, scattered like distant fires in the endless black sky. He lay on the cool sand beneath the swaying palms, the rhythmic crash of the waves lulling the island into a deceptive calm. The night carried no answers, only the quiet certainty that survival would be a battle—one he couldn’t afford to lose.

  Tomorrow, he would have to push forward. He needed shelter, a way to gather fresh water, and maybe, if luck was on his side, some means of signaling for help. But those were problems for the daylight. Right now, his body ached with exhaustion, and his mind teetered on the edge of sleep.

  He exhaled slowly, letting the weight of reality settle in. This island, with its sparse shade and meager offerings, was home now. For how long, he didn’t know. But until help arrived—or until he found a way out—he would have to wring every last chance of survival from the land beneath him.

  With that final thought, he closed his eyes and let the darkness take him.