My eyes fluttered open, a dull throb pounding in my skull like a jackhammer. For a moment, I couldn't even remember where I was. My head felt heavy, a mix of disorientation and the overwhelming sensation of having hit something hard. I blinked against the sharp rays of sunlight, squinting at the unfamiliar sky above me.
The first thing I noticed was the sound. The rhythmic crash of waves in the distance, like the ocean itself was mocking my misfortune. The ground beneath me was soft, but it didn't feel like the comforting softness of a bed. Instead, it was the uneven crunch of dirt and grass, with a mix of leaves and broken branches scattered around.
I groaned as I tried to sit up, a sharp pain shooting through my temple. Instantly, I clutched my head, cursing under my breath. It was then that the memories hit me in waves: the plane, the turbulence, the screams, the sharp cracking sound of metal as everything spiraled out of control. The flash of fire, the twisting chaos.
But how had I survived?
My hands trembled as I brushed aside the wreckage of leaves, trying to get a better sense of my surroundings. There was no sign of the plane. Not even the faintest smell of fuel lingered in the air. It was as if it had never existed at all, except for the jagged ache in my body.
I looked around, taking in the dense greenery of trees around me, the broken ground. The only thing standing in stark contrast to the wild forest was a faint trail of smoke rising in the distance. The scent of burning was still fresh, but it was a faint whisper now, barely noticeable above the wave sounds.
I forced myself to my feet, swaying slightly as I stood. This wasn't the time to panic—no, that wouldn't help. Panic was the first step toward losing control, and I needed control. My mind, sharp as it was, couldn't afford to dull in the face of whatever this nightmare was.
The world around me was quiet now—unnervingly quiet. Not even the usual chatter of insects or birds in the trees. It was as if the entire island was holding its breath, waiting for something.
I reached for my pockets instinctively. Nothing. Just the rip of fabric and the ache in my joints. I cursed again under my breath. If I was lucky, my emergency pack was somewhere nearby. I'd learned a long time ago that survival didn't just require luck. It required being smarter than the next guy. Being smarter than whoever put you in this situation.
A quick glance told me that I hadn't been completely abandoned by fate—nearby, half-buried in a pile of dirt and debris, I saw the faint gleam of metal. A small, emergency first-aid kit. My heart picked up its pace. The contents would be basic at best, but in this situation, any medical supply was better than none.
I limped over to it, wincing with every step. It was a struggle to keep my balance on the uneven ground, and I could feel the blood rushing to my head. The world around me spun slightly, but I grabbed the kit, pried it open, and took stock. Bandages, antiseptic wipes, and a small amount of gauze. Not ideal for what I was facing, but it was a start.
I treated the cut on my forehead first—nothing too deep, but it throbbed like the hell it had put me through. The pain was sharp, but the action of bandaging it was grounding. It gave me something to focus on, something that wasn't the overwhelming confusion swirling in my mind.
As I worked, I scanned the area. My mind began to settle, the detective in me kicking into overdrive. First rule of survival—gather information. The wreckage didn't seem to lead anywhere. No people, no animals—nothing but the ruins of a forgotten crash.
"Alright, Echo," I muttered to myself, my voice harsh in the stillness. "What next?"
I needed a plan. I needed food, shelter, water—anything to keep my body going. The island, wherever the hell I was, had no interest in offering me a comfortable existence. And with every moment that ticked by, the weight of the unknown began pressing down harder.
But I wasn't here by accident. I knew that. Somewhere, deep inside, I had an inkling of what was coming, and I wasn't about to let the crash be my last mistake.
Time to move.
With a final glance back at the wreckage, I started heading toward the smoke rising in the distance.