Chapter Text
The flames roar, devouring the air, their fury tangled with the tortured wail of engines sputtering their final cries. Voices—shrieking, panicked, raw—pierce through the chaos, then fade, swallowed by the overwhelming noise. Yet, for Liam, it’s all distant, muffled. The only sound he truly hears is the furious drumbeat of his heart, pounding against his ribs.
He needs to open his eyes, the rational part of his mind commands, gentle yet firm. But his body won’t comply. The light—it’s too bright, too sharp, searing his lids like fire.
He floats in a haze, time slipping away. Everything feels distant, like he isn’t fully there. Slowly, sensations begin to trickle back in. The heat under his hands is the first thing he notices—warm, grainy, rough. Sand, his mind supplies again, slow and sluggish. Sand? He flexes his fingers slightly, feeling the way the grains shift beneath them.
He forces one eye open. Light slams into him, harsh and unrelenting. He flinches but doesn’t shut it again. He couldn’t. The other eye follows, and he blinks against the glare of the sun. The blue above him stretches forever, an endless sky that seems so far away it makes his chest tighten and his head spin.
Liam drags in a breath. The air’s heavy and sharp, filled with smoke and salt. It scratches his throat and burns his lungs, but it’s real. He’s alive. Good to know. The world starts to take shape around him. The sand beneath him is hot, soft in some spots, but rough enough to scrape his skin. It feels wrong—too uneven, too unstable—like it might swallow him whole. He tries to sit up, but his body screams in protest, his muscles stiff and uncooperative.
That’s when he feels it, the cold metal against his wrist. He turned his head slowly, brows furrowing together. A handcuff. Still locked on his left wrist. Fuck. His right one’s free—he’d managed to get it off just before… before it started going down. The memory hits him like a punch to the gut.
The plane.
Before he even has a second to process his sudden realization, there’s a man kneeling next to him. His dark hair is swept furiously by the wind, plastered against his dirt-streaked face, which is split by a deep cut on his left cheekbone. But it isn’t the injury or the grit that Liam notices first—it’s his eyes. They’re blown wide, unblinking. Fear? No. Desperation. Liam knows the look too well. It’s like the guy’s holding himself together by sheer force of will.
Liam’s gaze flickers down to his mouth, moving fast. It takes him another moment to realize the man’s speaking to him.
“Wha—what?” Liam blurts, his voice coming out hoarse.
The guy stops and stares at him. He tries again, this time slower, more measured, though there’s still urgency threading every word. “I asked if you’re injured. Can you feel your legs? Is your head okay?”
The questions are simple, but Liam just blinks at him, the words slipping over him like water. Is his head okay? What does that even mean? The man’s gaze darts over Liam’s body, taking inventory like he’s trying to answer his own questions.
“I—I think I’m okay,” Liam manages, though the words sound uncertain even to him. Under the man’s watchful eye, he pushes himself to his feet in a clumsy motion and stretches out his arms as if to prove it, deliberately keeping the sleeve of his torn-up sweatshirt over his left wrist. “See? Fine. I’m fine.”
The man doesn’t seem convinced, but he doesn’t press either. His eyes flick to Liam’s left hand, lingering for half a second before returning to his face. If he notices his little accessory, he doesn’t show it.
“What the hell is going on?” Liam asks, his voice louder now, almost frantic, though the wind steals some of its edge.
The man ignores the question entirely, instead stepping closer into his personal space. Liam flinches but doesn’t move away. “What’s your name?”
The shift throws him off. “What?”
“Your name,” the man repeats, softer this time, though there’s still an urgency that grates against Liam’s nerves. As if realizing he’s too in Liam’s space, the man raises a hand between them in a placating gesture and takes a deliberate step back. “Mine’s Scott,” he says. “C’mon, man. What’s yours?”
“Liam,” he answers, and his voice cracks slightly on the syllable.
Scott doesn’t miss a beat. “Okay, Liam. I know you’re shaken up right now, but I need you to do me a favor.”
“I—”
“My shoulder’s dislocated,” Scott cuts him off, already moving on. “I need you to grab my right arm, twist, and push it back in. You think you can do that?”
Liam stares at him like he’s just been asked to preform spinal surgery on the guy. No, he cannot fucking do that. His brain seizes on the image of making it worse—of hurting Scott more than he already is. A wave of panic churns in his chest, hot and sharp. “I don’t know how,” he admits, hating the way his voice shakes. “I can’t—what if I mess it up?”
Scott doesn’t look frustrated or angry. If anything, his expression softens, though his teeth are clenched against the obvious pain. “That’s okay. I’ll walk you through it. I’m a pre-med student. I know what I’m doing.”
His attempt at reassurance doesn’t land. Liam’s eyes flick to the sheen of sweat on Scott’s forehead, the way his jaw trembles slightly as he speaks. He’s barely holding it together himself, and yet he’s asking Liam to help him.
Scott takes a shaky breath and presses on, his voice steadying. “It’s okay to be scared. I’m scared too.” His smile is faint but kind, and it makes something twist painfully in Liam’s chest. “Let yourself feel it for ten seconds. Count them out if you need to. But when they’re over, you have to push it aside and focus. You understand?”
Liam swallows hard and nods, though every instinct in him screams to run, to refuse, to shove this responsibility onto someone else. But he doesn’t. He screws his eyes shut and takes a trembling breath, dragging the air deep into his lungs as Scott’s words echo in his head.
Ten seconds.
One.
The tears in his mother’s eyes as he kissed her goodbye, his stomach twisted in knots, knowing he had no choice but to run.
Two.
The distant wail of police sirens, growing louder, closer.
Three.
The roar of the engine beneath him as he floored it, gripping the wheel until his knuckles turned white.
Four.
Mason’s lifeless eyes, staring up at him as he shook his body, screaming his name, begging him to come back.
Five.
His stomach dropping as she finally caught up to him, that smirk stretching across her face like a predator savoring its prey.
Six.
The icy bite of metal around his wrists, sharp and unforgiving.
Seven.
Being marched down the narrow plane aisle, every step heavy with defeat. The cuffs clinked softly, a reminder of how far he’d fallen. He couldn’t fight anymore—it was over.
Eight.
The shouting. The chaos. The deafening roar of turbulence as the plane shuddered violently beneath his feet.
Nine.
The darkness. The silence that followed.
Ten.
Here. Now.
His eyes snap open, and the world rushes back in—Scott’s pained expression, the howling wind, the broken wreckage scattered around them. It feels impossible, but Liam forces himself to focus.
Liam grabs Scott’s arm, his grip trembling as he twists it sharply and shoves it back into place. He doesn’t bother with a countdown—delaying it won’t make it hurt any less, he knows that much by now. The motion is fast, almost too fast, and Liam braces himself for the worst—a scream, a curse, anything. But Scott doesn’t scream.
Instead, the man squeezes his eyes shut and grunts, low and controlled, before slumping forward slightly to catch his breath. For a moment, Liam can only stare, breath caught in his throat, his hands still hovering near Scott’s shoulder as if expecting it to break apart again.
Scott straightens up slowly, rotating the limb and flexing his fingers. He winces but ultimately nods in satisfaction, looking back at Liam. This time, his gaze is steadier, clearer, and the smile he gives is genuine.
“Thank you,” Scott says, his voice quiet but sincere, his eyes twinkling with gratitude that makes something in Liam’s chest ache.
Liam feels his breath hitch, the adrenaline roaring through him like a freight train, searching for an escape. Don’t lose it now, he thinks, swallowing hard. He shakes his head quickly. “I didn’t really do anything,” he mutters, shrugging as though to downplay his efforts. The words tumble out automatically, a shield against the idea that he might have done something worthwhile. If he pretends it wasn’t a big deal, people won’t expect anything from him next time. And he can’t afford their expectations. He never could.
Scott’s smile doesn’t waver. “You did more than you think.”
Liam shifts uncomfortably under the praise, the corner of his mouth twitching in a nervous half-smile. “Your advice helped,” he mumbles. Then, because the moment feels too heavy and suffocating, he adds, “But don’t make me do it again, or I swear I’ll puke.”
Scott barks out a laugh, and to Liam’s surprise, the sound is warm and real. Against the backdrop of the chaos around them—the screams, the acrid stench of burning metal, the guttural cries for help—it feels almost absurd to laugh. But Liam finds himself chuckling too, the sound light and fleeting, a strange relief in the middle of all this hell.
The laughter doesn’t last long. The noise and desperation of the wreckage seep back in, pulling them both out of the brief moment. Liam watches as Scott’s smile fades, a shadow crossing his face.
“There are other survivors,” Scott says, his tone turning serious, his eyes scanning the wreckage. “But a lot of them might be hurt—some pretty bad. I’m going to try to help the ones who are seriously injured.” He pauses, his gaze flicking back to Liam. “If you’re okay, could you check the fuselage? See if anyone else is alive or needs help? Let me know if you find anyone who needs more than basic aid.”
Liam freezes for a beat, the weight of the question pressing against him. He doesn’t want to go near the wreckage. He doesn’t want to see more of what’s waiting there. But looking into Scott’s eyes, at the sheer exhaustion and determination in them, he knows there’s only one answer he can give.
“Okay,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, and yet determination evident in it.
Scott studies him for a moment, like he’s making sure Liam means it, “Yeah?”
Liam forces himself to meet his gaze. “Yeah. Let’s do this.”
***
The beach is chaos—waves shattering against jagged rocks, cries for help rising and falling like the tide. It’s a mess of noise, heat, and fear. But Theo moves through it all like a shadow. His steps are measured, deliberate, his eyes scanning the wreckage with sharp precision. Where others stumble or freeze, he acts, his mind already three steps ahead.
He crouches by a torn-open suitcase, his fingers sorting through the mess of clothes and toiletries with calm efficiency. Snacks, bottles of water, a sealed package of medical supplies—they all disappear into his scavenged backpack. His hands pause briefly on a granola bar, his lips pressing into a thin line before he tosses it aside. The food can wait. The meds are what matters.
The antiseptic wipes and painkillers catch his eye first. He shoves them into the bag without hesitation. Bandages follow—good ones, still sealed. For a second, he glances back at the others on the beach, their shouts and groans carried by the wind. There’s a tug somewhere deep in his chest, a fleeting itch of guilt. He ignores it.
No one’s coming. He knows that much. The thought is sharp and unwelcome but unshakable. Theo’s seen enough to know better than to expect a helicopter slicing through the horizon or some rescue team bursting out of the jungle. At least not today and definitely not tomorrow. It’s just not how it happens.
So he stockpiles. Better to have it all now than to need it later. The meds aren’t just for him, of course. He’ll share—if it makes sense. But people will owe him for it. Maybe they won’t see it that way, but Theo will. And when the time comes, he’ll make sure they remember.
He cinches the bag shut and slings it over one shoulder, his jaw tight. The truth is, the meds might save someone. But more importantly, they might save him. The thought churns in his mind, but he refuses to dwell on it. Survival doesn’t leave room for second-guessing, and Theo’s always been good at surviving. He stands, his gaze already scanning the next section of the wreckage, his movements precise and unhurried.
Behind him, the cries for help rise like a tide, relentless and grating. Theo hears every scream, every plea, but he doesn’t turn around. There’s no point. The sound blends into the chaos around him—the crashing waves, the groaning wreckage. Noise. That’s all it is.
He glances toward a huddled group near the plane’s remains. Someone’s pulling a body out of the debris, their hands trembling, their face twisted in desperation. Theo’s eyes flick over them, sharp and calculating, before he looks away. A waste of time and energy. He knows better. Helping them won’t change anything, won’t make this mess any less of a nightmare.
Somewhere deep down, there’s a stir of something—an ache, maybe guilt. He crushes it without hesitation, grinding it into the dirt. Guilt’s a luxury for people who don’t know how the world works, and Theo’s long past that. He tells himself he doesn’t feel anything, and it’s almost true. Whatever’s trying to crawl to the surface, he shoves it back where it belongs, locking it away so it can’t get in the way of what matters.
He doesn’t care about these people. Why should he? They’re strangers, and if they’re too weak to fend for themselves, that’s not his problem. The fire in his chest is just frustration at being here at all. That’s all. The ache in his stomach? Hunger, probably.
Another scream cuts through the air, raw and desperate. Theo’s hands pause for the briefest second. His jaw tightens, and he forces himself to keep moving. He’s not stupid—he knows how this works. People die. It’s just how things go. Let someone else play hero.
He stands, his eyes locking on something in the distance. Jackpot. The fuselage is jagged and broken but promising. That’s where the real supplies are. He starts walking, his stride purposeful, his focus unshakable. The distant cries fade into background noise, the faces of the injured blurring in his peripheral vision. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t look back.
***
Liam is stalling, and he knows it. He crouches beside a man sprawled on the sand, checking his pulse for the third time in as many minutes. The man’s fine—dehydrated, shaken, but alive. Nineteen people now. That’s how many are safe, or at least breathing, on this side of the beach. But his gaze keeps drifting to the bodies in the water, bobbing in the waves. No one talks about them. No one had decided what to do with them.
By the tree line, Scott is busy with the injured, dragging them out of the sun and laying them in the shade. There’d been four so far, each one worse than the last.
The first two—a boy and a girl, late teens, maybe siblings—lie side by side, their faces pale and drawn. The boy had kept slipping in and out of consciousness, mumbling something unintelligible before fading again. His leg was mangled, crushed beneath a chunk of the plane that had taken six people to lift off him. The skin was an angry mix of purple and black, twisted in ways that made Liam’s stomach churn. He didn’t need to be a doctor to know the leg had to go. One brief look at Scott’s face had confirmed that much, but they didn’t have the supplies to do anything about it. The girl wasn’t much better. A head injury, Scott thought, though they couldn’t be sure. She was conscious, but barely. Her gaze was glassy, her lips cracked and dry. She stared up at the trees like they might answer the questions she couldn’t form into words.
Then there’d been the other guy, Stiles, not much older than Liam, curled up clutching his abdomen. Scott had pulled a jagged piece of metal out of him while the boy screamed through it, the red-haired girl next to him gripping his hand so tightly her knuckles turned white. “Lydia,” she’d introduced herself later, her voice clipped and authoritative, the edge of panic nowhere to be found. She’d met Scott’s eyes briefly before turning her attention to the wounded, her movements purposeful. “Top of my biology class,” she added, almost mechanically, as if ticking off a list. “MIT. Math major.” It wasn’t exactly medical training, but it sure beats standing around doing nothing. The way she said it left no room for argument.
And then there’s the woman.
Mid-thirties, her dark skin incredibly pale, and her body deathly still, she’s the worst off of them all. A metal pole juts out from just below her ribs, glinting in the sunlight. Her blouse is drenched in blood, a deep crimson stain blooming outward. Liam forces himself to look away.
“She’ll bleed out if we pull it,” Scott mutters, crouched beside her, his face grim. “We need to stabilize her first—something to clean the wound, antibiotics, alcohol, anything.” His hands hover over the pole, hesitant, like he can’t decide whether to touch it or not.5
Liam keeps his face blank, nodding mutely. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.
Scott leans back, exhaling sharply. “We don’t have time to waste. We need to—” He stops suddenly, frowning. His hand brushes against her waist, and then he’s pulling something out from beneath her blood-soaked shirt.
It’s a gun.
Liam already knew that, though.
Scott freezes, holding the weapon like it’s about to go off. His expression twists with surprise and then disbelief as he sets it on the ground and digs into her pocket, retrieving a slim leather wallet. He flips it open, scanning the ID inside.
“She’s a US Marshal,” Scott says, his voice tinged with confusion. “Tamara Monroe. What the hell was a marshal doing on our flight?”
Liam doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even look at him. He keeps his face unreadable, though his heart thunders in his chest. He knows exactly what she was doing there, but there’s no way in hell he’s going to tell Scott that. Instead, he focuses on her—on Tamara Monroe, the woman who had been so relentless, so certain of her duty, and now lay helpless in the sand.
“Is she going to make it?” he’d asked, his voice carefully even, but his stomach twisting. He wanted to believe the words were neutral. They weren’t.
Scott exhales, his shoulders sagging. “Not unless we find supplies—and soon. Without something to clean the wound, infection’s going to kill her. Antibiotics, bandages, alcohol, even clean water. Anything.” He grabs the gun again, sliding it into his own waistband, Liam carefully tracking the movement. “I’ll check past the tree line. You head to the fuselage.”
Except, he doesn’t move.
He stands there, rooted to the spot, staring down at her. Monroe. The name feels sharp and bitter in his mind, like biting down on metal. Her face is slack, her chest barely rising with each shallow breath. She doesn’t look like the same woman who’d snapped cuffs around his wrists, her tone saccharine and self-satisfied as she read him his rights. She doesn’t look like the woman who had smirked meanly as he sat fuming in the back of the plane, knowing there was no way out.
She doesn’t look like much of anything now.
Scott’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts. “Liam. Go.”
He nods, forcing his body into motion. The sand shifts under his feet as he moves toward the fuselage, the sounds of the beach fading behind him.
He can’t let himself look back. Not now, when every step feels like he’s dragging the weight of a decision he hasn’t made yet. He needs to find the supplies—for the others, for the boy with the gut wound, for the teenagers slipping in and out of consciousness. They need him.
But so does she.
And that’s a problem.
Because if she wakes up, if she makes it through this...
He shakes the thought away, his jaw tightening. He’ll deal with her later. Right now, he just needs to move.
***
Turns out, he is right. Shocker. The fuselage is a gold mine—or more like a minefield, considering how many bodies were scattered around. Theo doesn’t let himself get distracted by them, though. He is a man on a mission. Multiple first-aid kits ae laying around, just begging to be taken, and he isn’t about to leave them behind for someone else to grab first.
For the last half hour, he’d been scavenging, methodically filling up as many backpacks as he could find. Bandages, painkillers, water bottlers—whatever looks useful. And if he pockets a mini bottle of vodka here and there, who could blame him? It isn’t just for comfort; alcohol has its uses. Disinfect wounds, calm nerves, trade for something better later. He needs every upper hand he can get.
He is mid-search, fingers curling around the zipper of another bag, when he hears it. The wreckage groans under the weight of hurried footsteps, the sound sharp and intrusive against the quiet hum of his work. Theo freezes, hand still on the bag, every muscle tensing. Looks like he isn’t the only one with the right idea.
Straightening up, he lets the bottle drop from his fingers, forgotten as his senses sharpen. He scans the shadows, eyes narrowing as the source of the sound steps into view. Whoever it is, he won’t let them get the wrong impression. He isn’t an easy target, and he isn’t about to let them play hero, either.
His green eyes lock onto a pair of stormy blue ones. Theo blinks, momentarily thrown. He isn’t sure what he’d expected—someone lost and disoriented, maybe, or another scavenger who’d challenge him for what he’d found. What he hadn’t expected was the angsty-looking teenager standing in front of him, sweat-slick and visibly out-of-breath.
At first glance, the kid doesn’t look like much. He looks younger than Theo and he is definitely shorter by at least a couple of inches, drowning in a sweatshirt two sizes too big. Seriously, a sweatshirt? In this heat? Weird. His hair sticks up in every direction, damp and unruly, and his face is flushed, probably from the effort of making it through the wreckage. Nothing about him screams "danger." But Theo wasn’t stupid. He didn’t stop at the surface.
A second, more deliberate glance paints a different picture. The way the kid’s jaw is set, tight and unyielding, speaks volumes. His lips, a soft pink, are pressed into a razor-thin line, and there is a deep crease etched between his brows, giving him an edge that his frame doesn’t. But it isn’t the posture, or even the tension in his body, that makes Theo hold his breath.
It’s the look in his eyes.
Dark blue, intense, and unwavering, they burn with a sharp focus Theo recognizes all too well. He’d caught that look in the mirror before, on the days when survival meant staying three steps ahead of everyone else. There is no hesitation in those eyes, no second-guessing, just a fierce, almost reckless edge.
The guy isn’t just determined. He is simmering. Not the kind of calm conviction Theo could work around, but something hotter, more unstable. His fists are clenched tight, but not in preparation for a fight—at least not yet. It was more like he was holding himself together, barely. The tension in his frame, the sharpness in his gaze—it all speaks of someone walking a tightrope between control and chaos.
Theo feels his lips twitch into the ghost of a smirk. He doesn’t need to be a mind reader to know that if pushed, the kid would blow. Maybe not right now, but at the right moment? Oh, that could be useful.
Still, he can’t let his guard down. “Can I help you with something?” Theo asks, his voice light but laced with just enough edge to warn him off, let him know he isn’t really offering. He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back slightly, every line of his body calculated, casual, but ready. Always ready.
The guy’s jaw clenches tighter. “I’m not here to bother you,” he says, his voice low but steady. “I just need some medical supplies.”
Theo cocks his head, taking him in fully now. The sweatshirt, the sweat, the heaving chest. This kid isn’t just determined—he is scared. Desperate. That much is clear. But what stands out more is the way he holds himself. He is all tension and sharp angles, like a spring wound too tight. And yet, there is no hesitation in him. He isn’t intimidated. Not by the bodies, not by the wreckage, and certainly not by Theo.
It is almost admirable.
Almost.
Theo lets his lips curl into a mock smile, leaning into the dynamic. “What for?” he asks, his tone light, laced with feigned ignorance.
The guy blinks at him, as if caught off guard by the question. Then, the irritation flares in his eyes. “What do you mean, what for?” he snaps, his voice sharp. “We’ve just been in a plane crash.”
Theo raises an eyebrow, letting his gaze travel up and down the guy again, pointedly slow. “You look fine to me.”
He adds a smirk, just to be an asshole.
That does it. The growl that follows is practically audible. “There are people hurt out there, in case you haven’t noticed,” the other man fires back, stepping closer, his movements jerky, raw. For a second, just a second, Theo thinks he might actually swing.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, the guy shoves past him, shoulder brushing Theo’s just hard enough to make a point, before diving into the nearest luggage compartment with frantic hands. “And for the record”, he looks up, narrowing his eyes at him, “I don’t owe you or anyone else an explanation,” he states , voice tight with frustration. “So if you’re not gonna help, do me a favor and get out of my face.”
Theo stays where he is, unfazed. He doesn’t move a muscle, just watches the kid rummage through the wreckage like a man possessed. Calmly, almost lazily, he shrugs. “You kinda do, though.”
That stops him.
“What?” The guy turns, confusion written all over his face.
Theo tilted his head, his smirk deepening ever so slightly. “Owe me an explanation.”
The guy’s hands are still mid-rummage, his glare snapping back to Theo. “What the hell are you talking about?” he spits, his voice barely holding it together.
“I mean,” Theo drawls, pushing off the wall of the fuselage and stepping closer, his movements deliberate, unhurried, “if you’re gonna raid my treasure trove here, it’s only polite to tell me why. You know, basic courtesy.”
The guy scoffs, disbelief painted all over his face. “Your treasure trove? This is a plane crash, not your personal supply store.”
Theo shrugs, unbothered. “Call it whatever you want. Doesn’t change the fact that you’re the one digging through my haul.”
“I’m not going to fight you for it” the guy declares, standing straighter now, his fists clenched at his sides. He looks like he’s trying to keep it together, but Theo doesn’t miss the way his shoulders twitch, the way his jaw flexes like he’s grinding his teeth.
“Could’ve fooled me,” Theo says lightly, his smirk widening just a fraction. He steps even closer now, closing the distance to just a few feet, and leans in just enough to make the guy flinch—not back, but forward, chest puffing like he’s ready to throw down.
“Look,” the guy says, sharp, cutting. “There are people dying out there. There’s no time for whatever this is.”
Theo raises an eyebrow, pretending to consider the words. “People dying, huh?” He gestures vaguely around the wreckage. “Plenty of supplies to go around, are there not?”
The guy hesitates for half a second—just long enough for Theo to catch it.
And there it is.
Realization.
“You’re hoarding it, because you want something for it, don’t you?” the guy bites out finally, the words hissed through gritted teeth. “While everyone else is trying to help, you’re out here collecting loot like some sewer rat.”
“Careful, kid. Words like that can get you in trouble.” He smiles, though the words, but it’s all teeth and threat in them is clear.
The guy doesn’t back down. His angry blue eyes burn brighter, and Theo watches as he clenches his fists tighter, his whole body practically vibrating with the effort to keep it together.
“You gonna hit me?” Theo says, voice calm, almost curious. He tilts his head, studying him like he’s some rare specimen under a microscope. “Go ahead. See where that gets you.”
For a moment, Theo thinks he will. A small part of him hopes, even. He’d deserved it.
But then the guy exhales sharply, his hands falling to his sides as he takes a shaky step back. “Forget it,” he mutters, voice strained, almost trembling. He turns back to the luggage, rifling through it with renewed vigor. “I don’t have time for this.”
Theo watches him for a moment longer, quiet, calculating. He lets a dark smile stretch over his lips, folding his arms across his chest as he leans against the wreckage again.
“Why don’t you ask me what I want?”
***
Liam doesn’t answer right away. His eyes flicker over the guy standing there, calm and unflinching in the wreckage. The man’s posture is loose, like he’s in no rush, but there’s a tension under it, the kind that hints at something dangerous just beneath the surface. He’s about Liam’s age, maybe a little older, but that’s hard to pin down with someone like him. What really catches Liam’s attention, though, are the eyes—dark green and focused, giving nothing away, like they’ve seen enough to know exactly how things go down. And that small mole on his cheek, almost imperceptible, is the kind of thing you’d barely notice, except it makes the guy more striking somehow. He looks like the kind of guy who knows exactly how to use his looks, probably has his whole life. The sort of guy who knows how to manipulate a room, make people lean in just a little too close without saying a word.
It’s unsettling, the way he makes Liam feel like he’s the one being sized up.
“What do you want?” Liam finally asks, tone flat, though it’s tinged with suspicion. His fingers itch for the first aid kit, but he doesn’t dare move yet. Not until he knows exactly where this is going.
The man’s smile deepens, not quite reaching his eyes. There’s something hungry behind it, a quiet sort of amusement, like he’s enjoying watching Liam squirm just a little. “First, your name.” His voice is friendly, but there’s no mistaking the edge beneath it. He’s not offering it as a question—it’s a demand, but one wrapped in a game.
Liam hesitates, his chest tightening slightly. His name isn’t something he’s handing over easily, not his real one at least. But the guy’s eyes stay locked on him, unwavering, as if expecting it. The silence stretches for a beat too long, and finally, Liam exhales, almost as if giving in to something he can’t explain.
“Liam,” he mutters, his voice tight in defeat.
The man’s smile flickers with satisfaction. “Nice to meet you, Liam,” he says, his voice all sweet with fake politeness. He steps closer, closing the gap between them just enough to make things feel more intimate than they should. “I’ll give you the kit,” he continues, his tone laid-back, like this is all just routine, “but you’ll owe me. A favor.”
Liam’s eyes narrow, a slight scoff threatening to escape, but he swallows it. “A favor?”
The taller man shrugs, that grin still tugging at his lips. If Liam didn’t know any better, he might almost find it charming. But he does, and he doesn’t miss the subtle warning behind it. “A favor,” he repeats, smooth as silk. “I’m sure you’ve got no problem repaying debts.” He moves with deliberate slowness, almost savoring the moment, as he pulls a first aid kit from the bag slung over his shoulder. He handles it like it’s nothing, the flick of his wrist dismissive, as if it’s just another piece of the wreckage. But when Liam reaches for it, the man pulls it back. The tension hangs in the air, thick and unspoken.
Liam’s pulse spikes, irritation rising like smoke under his skin. The guy watches him closely, taking in every flicker of emotion. Then, almost lazily, he speaks again. “I’ll give it to you, but you need to say it first. You owe me.”
Liam clenches his jaw, the words sticking in his throat. There’s a part of him that wants to snap, to push back, but something in the way the man’s looking at him—calm, sure of himself—holds him back. He knows if he resists too much, it’ll only prolong this even more and he needs the kit now, especially if he wants to earn Scott’s trust. So he bites back his pride, and forces the words out, barely audible.
“Fine. I owe you.” The man’s smirk widens and there’s something in his eyes now, like he knows he’s got Liam exactly where he wants him. Satisfied, he lets the kit fall into Liam’s hands. He catches it easily, the weight of it settling in his grip, both practical and strangely symbolic. He’s not happy about the deal, not one bit, but It’s not like it will mean anything once they’re off this godforsaken island anyway.
Before he can turn away, his curiosity gets the better of him. “What’s your name?” he asks, his voice rough, but the question sharp, a needling kind of demand that he doesn’t quite realize he’s making.
The other boy doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze never leaving Liam’s face. For a long moment, he says nothing, as if weighing the question in his head. Then, with a small shrug, he pulls his attention back to the wreckage.
“Doesn’t matter,” he replies, his tone light, as if the name was irrelevant to the transaction they’d just made.
Liam’s lips twitch, irritation rising once more, but he doesn’t press. It’s not like he cares. Instead, he steps back, clutching the kit tighter to his chest as he shifts to leave.
But before he can walk away, the guy’s voice rings out again, casual, almost too relaxed. “I’ll be seeing you around, Liam.”
Liam doesn’t look back. He can feel his gaze on his back, and something about the way it lingers makes the hairs on his neck stand up.
***
By the time Liam makes it back to the others by the tree line, the scene has shifted into chaos. Scott kneels beside Monroe, his hands hovering uncertainly over the jagged metal pole embedded in her side. His face is pale, drenched in sweat, and his movements are jerky, almost frantic. Despair radiates off him. Liam’s chest tightens at the sight, but he doesn’t hesitate. He sprints the last few steps, crouching beside them and dropping the kit onto the sand with trembling hands.
Scott finally notices him, his wide, bloodshot eyes snapping to Liam’s face. The tension in his expression cracks for a second, relief flickering there before it’s swallowed by panic again. He snatches the bag out of his hands with a ferocity that makes Liam flinch.
“What took you so long?!” Scott shouts, his voice cracking with frustration. Spit flies from his lips, but his anger dissipates as quickly as it appeared. His face crumples in regret, and he shakes his head. “I—sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” Liam interrupts, his voice steady, though his pulse is racing. He knows Scott hadn’t meant to lash out at him. He gets it. “There’s antiseptic in there. Bandages, too. Some pills, but I don’t recognize what they are.”
Scott doesn’t respond, already digging through the kit with shaky hands. He pulls out the antiseptic and douses the wound liberally. Liam’s stomach churns at the sight, and he forces himself to look away, his gaze landing on the bloody rags scattered across the sand. Someone had already tried to clean her up, but it clearly wasn’t enough.
Scott’s voice cuts through the silence, sharp and urgent. “I need you to go get Lydia. She’s down by the beach with that girl who twisted her ankle. Me and her are going to pull out the pole, but—” he pauses, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard, “we don’t have anything to stitch her up. We’ll have to cauterize it.”
Liam’s blood runs cold. “Cauterize it?” he echoes, his voice hoarse. He knows what it means, but that doesn’t make hearing the words any more comprehensible.
Scott nods grimly. “Take this,” he says, grabbing a long piece of metal scrap from the ground and thrusting it into Liam’s hands. “Heat it over one of the fires—hot enough that the edges glow red. Amber. Bring it back as fast as you can.”
Liam stares at the makeshift tool, his stomach lurching. The thought of what Scott’s asking him to do—what they’re about to do—makes his hands shake, but he clamps down on the rising bile.
“Got it,” he mutters, his voice tight. He doesn’t wait for a response before he’s on his feet, running toward the beach.
Lydia is crouched beside a young girl when he reaches her, rubbing slow circles on the girl’s back. The girl looks small and scared, her cheeks streaked with dried tears. Lydia’s entire demeanor has shifted; her sharp edges are gone, replaced by something gentle and maternal. Liam hesitates, feeling like he’s interrupting something sacred.
“Lydia,” he calls out, his voice cracking slightly. He clears his throat and tries again, louder this time. “Scott needs you. Right now.”
Lydia’s head snaps up, her expression hardening in an instant. She gives the girl’s hand a reassuring squeeze before standing. “I’ll be back soon, I promise” she says, her voice soft but firm. “Your ankle’s going to be fine. Just stay off it, okay?”
The girl looks doubtful but nods anyway. Lydia scans the beach, her eyes narrowing until they land on someone nearby. “You,” she calls out, motioning toward a tall girl standing a few feet away. She looks startled but jogs over.
“What’s your name?” Lydia asks briskly.
“Hayden,” the girl replies, her tone cautious.
“Hayden, can you stay with Tracy for a while? She twisted her ankle and needs someone to keep her company.”
Hayden nods without hesitation and drops to the sand beside Tracy. Lydia offers a quick, approving nod before turning back to Liam. “Let’s go.”
Without another word, the two of them break into a run, the weight of the task ahead bearing down on them both. Liam’s grip tightens around the scrap metal in his hand, and he tries to block out the nagging thought in the back of his mind. Would it be so bad if Monroe bled out?
The pole comes out with a sickening, wet sound that Liam knows will haunt him. He passes the metal scrab to Scott and he looks away, as the other man presses it against her flesh. He still hears the sizzling.
Scott presses a wad of bandages over the wound. Blood wells up, staining the fabric, but it’s not as much as Liam thought it would be. Scott mutters instructions to Lydia, her hands steady and practiced, even as her face betrays the tension she’s holding back.
“She’s not bleeding out,” Lydia says, glancing briefly at Liam before turning her attention back to Monroe. “That’s the good news.”
Liam knows how he’s supposed to react—nod, sigh in relief, say something reassuring. That’s what anyone else would do. That’s what Scott is doing, his shoulders sagging ever so slightly at Lydia’s words. But Liam’s stomach twists in a tight, cold knot. Relief? That’s not what he’s feeling. Not even close.
His eyes drift to Monroe’s unconscious face, pale and slack, her dark curls matted with sweat and sand. If she wakes up—if she talks—it’s over for him. He knows it. And suddenly, the air feels heavier, harder to breathe.
Lydia’s tone shifts, drawing his attention back to her. She gestures toward the mottled bruising spreading like a web across Monroe’s ribs and abdomen, her expression grim. “The bad news is… this.” She exhales, biting her cheek. “These bruises, along with the fever she’s running… it’s not good. The infection is likely systemic at this point. Even if we keep the wound clean, I don’t think she’s going to make it.”
Scott swallows hard, his hands hovering over Monroe’s bandaged side. For a moment, it looks like he’s forgotten how to breathe. His eyes trail her abdomen. “You’re right” he whispers, the word barely audible. Then louder, more insistent: “Her body could still fight this.”
His voice cracks, and Liam doesn’t need to see his face to know what he’s feeling. Scott’s hope, his refusal to accept the truth, is palpable. Liam wants to reach out, say something to ease the weight of it, but what could he possibly say? He doesn’t share Scott’s hope. He can’t.
Because deep down, the thought that Monroe might not make it… doesn’t bother him. Not at all.
The realization makes his stomach churn. It’s not like he wants her to die. He’s not some monster. But if she does—if she slips away quietly, without ever opening her eyes—then his secret is safe. No one will know who he really is or why she’d been the one to lock him up before the crash. And once they’re saved, he’ll be able to run.
Scott shakes his head, his hands trembling as he presses them back to the wound. “We can’t just give up on her,” he says, his voice thick with desperation.
Lydia crouches beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Her expression softens, but her voice remains steady. “Scott, you did what can. But sometimes, even when you do everything right, it’s not enough.” She pauses, her gaze flicking to Monroe and then back to him. “This is not your fault.”
Scott looks like he wants to argue, but no words come. Instead, he ducks his head, his hands falling limp in his lap.
“We can wait. We can keep her comfortable and do everything we can, but… Scott, you need to prepare yourself.” Lydia declares and her tone is final.
Liam takes a step back, his gaze darting between them. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, not without the risk of his voice betraying what he’s really feeling. Relief. Shame. A gnawing, uneasy sense of guilt.
For now, he keeps his mouth shut and watches as Scott stubbornly resumes tending to Monroe, as if sheer willpower might keep her alive. Lydia rises to her feet, brushing the sand from her knees, and meets Liam’s eyes. There’s a question there, unspoken but heavy: Are you okay?
Liam nods, jerky and unconvincing, and Lydia doesn’t push. She turns and moves toward the others, leaving him standing there in the fading sunlight, his chest tight and his thoughts louder than ever.
He doesn’t know how much longer he can keep this up.
“I’m gonna… I’ll be back,” he mutters, his voice barely audible.
Scott doesn’t respond.
***
Liam’s feet drag across the sand as he walks, his thoughts tangled and heavy. The beach is alive with movement, but it all feels far away—just a hum of sound behind a thick, invisible wall. A baby cries somewhere in the distance. Someone laughs. The clang of metal-on-metal cuts through the air like a dull echo.
He passes Lydia kneeling beside the boy from earlier—Stiles, if he remembers the name right. His shirt is off, revealing a bandage on his abdomen where Scott had pulled out the shard of metal. He’s grinning now, mischief written all over his face, his voice carrying faintly as he makes a joke Liam can’t quite catch. Lydia rolls her eyes, but there’s no real annoyance in it, just the kind of exasperated affection that reminds him of someone who’s long gone. Stiles catches her eye and says something else, earning a reluctant smile from her, and Liam feels the faintest tug at his chest.
He spots Hayden and Tracy near one of the makeshift tents, their heads close together as they talk. Tracy still looks pale, her ankle propped up on a bundle of clothes, but there’s a small smile on her face now. Hayden is laughing at something Tracy said, her hand resting lightly on the younger girl’s shoulder.
The smile that tugs at Liam’s lips is small, but real. Despite everything—despite the chaos, the wreckage, the impossible weight of what’s happened—there’s still this. People finding each other. Taking care of each other.
But the moment doesn’t last. His gaze shifts past them, drawn to the silhouette of the fuselage against the horizon. It looms like a broken spine, jagged and dark, the last remnant of everything they left behind. He swallows hard, the hollow ache in his chest spreading.
He lets his feet carry him closer to the water. The sand changes underfoot, cooler and firmer, as he reaches the shoreline. The ocean stretches endlessly in front of him, its surface glowing in hues of orange and gold as the sun sinks lower into the horizon. He sits down, the damp sand chilling him through his jeans, and pulls his knees to his chest.
Liam buries his face in his hands, his mind replaying the day in jagged fragments. The crash, the chaos, the screaming. The suffocating terror of having his wrists huffed together, helpless while everything around him fell apart. Scott asking for his help. Monroe—the one person who knows who he really is—lying unconscious, her fate uncertain.
Scott. Liam’s thoughts circle back to him, the way he’d leapt into action without hesitation, driven by a selflessness that seemed impossible to match. Scott didn’t hesitate, didn’t flinch, even with the weight of everything pressing down on him. Liam doesn’t know how he does it—how he can care so deeply, so completely, even when the odds are stacked against him.
It reminds him of…
Mason’s face flashes in his mind—a memory too vivid to ignore. That determined set of his jaw, the way his grin could soften even the hardest of days. Liam’s fingers twitch against his side before finding the cuff beneath his sleeve. He shifts it, the metal cool against his wrist, as if testing its weight.
The waves murmur in the distance, their rhythm steady, unchanging. Liam turns the cuff, his thumb tracing the edge where metal meets skin. His grip tightens, just for a second, until the sharp press draws him back to the present.
He doesn’t look at it. He doesn’t need to. The feel of it is enough—a reminder, as unrelenting as the pull of the tide.
The horizon blurs, a smear of orange and gold against the deepening blue. Liam’s eyes follow the waves as they collapse and rebuild, their constancy a quiet mockery. He shifts his legs, leaning forward, his breath leaving him in uneven bursts.
The cuff digs in again as his fingers twist it unconsciously, a dull ache blooming beneath the metal. He pulls his knees closer, grounding himself in the pressure, in the fleeting sting. The sun dips lower, and the colors fade, leaving nothing but a heavy stillness behind.
He’s pulled out of thoughts as a half-empty bottle of water is shoved roughly at his lap. He hadn’t even realized how thirsty he ‘d been up until now. But when he looks up, he forgets all about it once again.
***
"Take it. You look like shit." Theo says lightly, and it’s only half a lie. The kid from the fuselage—Liam, his brain reminds him—looks pale now, the flush from earlier drained away. His hair is even more disheveled, tousled by the strong coastal breeze, and his lips are chapped, their pinkness faded. And yet, there’s something about the way is blue eyes catch the fading sunlight, the way they seem to hold something beneath them, the curve of his lips, even pulled tight in thought, holds a certain shape to them, like they’re made to smile, even if they won’t. Theo watches him without thinking about it too much.
Without waiting for an invitation, he drops down into the sand beside Liam, his movements easy and relaxed.
“You again,” Liam mutters, voice rough from disuse, but the bite in it is dulled. Exhaustion, maybe. Or apathy.
“Me again,” Theo confirms, a faint smirk curling his lips as he gestures to the bottle. “Not gonna drink?”
“What, you don’t want something for it? My liver, maybe?” Liam shoots back, though his words are slow, as if he’s not quite engaged yet.
Theo chuckles, low and genuine. "Nah, my liver’s fine. I could use a kidney, though."
The line lands. Liam scoffs, but there's a hitch in his breath that betrays the small chuckle threatening to break through. Theo catches it—just a flicker of something beneath the usual guardedness. He can’t help but feel a small, silent victory in the shift, even if it’s fleeting.
A beat of silence stretches between them. Theo watches as Liam fiddles with the bottle in his hands, turning it over and over, like he’s unsure whether to drink it or not. Then, without warning, Liam tips it up and takes a long swig. It’s quick, unceremonious, but the action doesn’t escape Theo’s notice.
Liam pauses, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and Theo trails the motion, catching the soft clang of metal on his wrist underneath the sleeve. Interesting.
“So,” he begins, voice casual, conversational, like they’re old friends sharing a beer instead of strangers on a dying beach. “Did the kit help that woman? There’s word around she’s a marshal. ”
Despite Theo’s light tone, the question comes out too direct, too targeted, and Liam stiffens before he can catch himself.
“How do you know she’s the one that needed it?” Liam asks, tension creeping back into his voice.
Theo shrugs lazily, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “Saw you earlier,” he says easily. “Helping cauterize her. Looked bad.”
“Oh,” Liam says, his shoulders easing a fraction, though there’s still a tightness in his face. “Yeah. It was. Her infection’s... bad. She’s probably not gonna make it.”
Theo hums, low and thoughtful, his expression unreadable. “Did you know her?”
The question is thrown out so casually that it almost slips by, but the pause that follows is louder than anything else. Liam’s fingers curl reflexively into the sand, his gaze darting away.
“No,” he says finally, the word clipped, flat.
Theo doesn’t respond right away. He just hums again, the kind of sound that gives nothing away. His gaze shifts slightly, from the water to the edge of Liam’s sweatshirt, where the sleeve is pulled just a little too low on his wrist.
“It’s getting colder,” Theo says, as if it’s an offhand observation. He stretches his legs out in front of him, his tone light but pointed. “Good thing you had that sweatshirt on the whole day.”
The words hang in the air, innocuous on the surface but meaningful beneath. He watches Liam’s body tense again—just a flash of muscle beneath the sweatshirt. But it’s enough. The way Liam doesn’t answer immediately, just shifts his focus away.
Liam doesn’t answer. Not right away. For a moment, it seems like he might ignore it altogether, but Theo doesn’t miss the way his shoulders tense, the slight shift in his jaw. It’s quick, barely noticeable, but it’s there.
Theo lets it hang, leaning back on his hands and turning his gaze back to the water. The waves roll in and out, their rhythm unchanging, and for a while, the only sounds between them are the crash of the waves and the distant hum of the makeshift camp.
Liam fiddles with the bottle in his hands but doesn’t take another sip.
***
The ocean, quieter now, laps softly at the shore, a gentle rhythm that feels out of place against the heavy murmurs of conversation. The wreckage of the plane cast jags shadows across the beach, where survivors huddle around small fires, their faces lit in flickers of orange and gold. Some had built makeshift shelters out of torn fuselage panels, leaning them against larger fragments for support. Others had simply laid pieces of fabric or plane seats on the sand, too exhausted to do more. Smoke curls into the air, blending with the salty breeze, as the stars stretch endlessly above, sharp and unblinking against the dark canvas of the sky.
Scott stands near the largest fire, a makeshift torch in his hand, the light catching the edges of his face. He is speaking, his voice calm but firm, carrying over the crackle of the flames. People are watching him, their faces turned upward, as if clinging to every word. Liam stands by his side, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his sweatshirt, his shoulders hunched. Lydia's to his left, her sharp gaze scanning the group as if calculating their odds of survival. Liam doesn’t blame her. The unease in the air is heavy, settling over them all like a damp fog.
But it isn’t just unease. There's something else in the way people look at Scott—something Liam can’t quite put into words. Maybe it's hope. The kind of hope that doesn’t make much sense, given everything, but feels vital anyway. The others look at him like he is more than just another survivor, like he has answers no one else did. Like he can make it all okay somehow.
Liam envies it, in a way. How Scott could stand there, calm and composed, carrying the weight of everyone’s fear without faltering. How he could speak with that quiet conviction, the kind that made people believe in him without question. Liam doesn’t know how he does it. He doesn’t know how anyone could.
For him, it was different. The weight presses down on him in ways he can’t explain, like the cuff hidden beneath his sleeve—always there, cold and unforgiving. He isn’t the kind of person people looked to for answers. He isn’t the kind of person people believed in.
He shifts on his feet, glancing sideways at Scott. There's something magnetic about him, something that makes it impossible not to trust him, even when things seemed hopeless. It doesn’t matter how Scott did it or why people followed him. What matters is that they need someone like him right now. Someone to make them feel like they can survive this.
“We need to start thinking about the essentials,” Scott is saying, his voice calm but loud enough to carry over the crackling of the fires. “Food, water, shelter. We’ll organize a search party tomorrow to figure out what this island has to offer. For now, we work with what we’ve got. We ration the supplies we salvaged from the wreckage.”
“What about getting off the island?” someone asks. The voice comes from a man sitting on the edge of a torn piece of wing, his face illuminated by the glow of the fire. “Has anyone seen anything, heard anything? Flares, radios?”
Scott hesitates, and Liam sees the brief flicker of doubt cross his face before he smoothed it over. “Not yet,” he admits. “But that doesn’t mean no one’s coming. We have to assume they’re looking for us. Until then, we focus on surviving.”
A brunette girl standing near the back of the crowd raises her hand. Her hair falls in loose waves, and she cling to the arm of the man standing beside her—her father, Liam guesses, from the way she leans into him. “Is it true?” she asks, her voice hesitant. “The unconscious woman… someone said she’s a U.S. Marshal.”
Scott glances toward Lydia, who gives him a slight nod. “Yeah,” Scott confirmes after a moment. “She is.”
The girl’s father straightens, his brows knitting together. “If she’s a marshal,” he begins slowly, his voice slicing through the low murmur of the group, “wouldn’t that mean she was escorting someone on the plane? A prisoner?”
The question hits the crowd like a spark to dry kindling. Voices erupt almost instantly—sharp, anxious, overlapping in a rising tide of panic.
“A prisoner? On our plane?”
“Who would they even be transporting?”
“Did anyone see her with someone?!”
A blonde woman in the back shouts, “What if they’re dangerous?!” and that sets off a chain reaction, the group fracturing into smaller arguments. Faces twist in fear and suspicion, strangers turning toward one another with wild, darting eyes, as though anyone might be the culprit.
Liam’s breath hitches. The chaos blurs around him, voices muffled by the roaring in his ears. His body goes rigid, every muscle tensing as though bracing for impact. The words—the implications—they slice through him, lodging somewhere deep, and for a terrible moment, he can’t move.
He keeps his head down, willing himself to disappear, but the weight of it—of something—bears down on him. A gaze. He can feel it, sharp and unrelenting, cutting through the din of the crowd like a razor. It isn’t just a glance; it was precise, deliberate, probing.
Against every instinct, Liam turns his head, scanning the crowd.
And there they are. Green eyes, steady and unyielding, locked onto him. The man from the fuselage—the one with the sharp jawline and the easy smile that feels more like a weapon than a comfort. His expression is calm, infuriatingly so, as if the chaos around them doesn’t exist. But his gaze is something else entirely. Intense. Calculating. Liam feels stripped bare under it, like he’d already been figured out, every secret laid out for the taking.
Liam’s pulse thuds in his ears. He forces himself to look away, his throat tightening.
The noise of the crowd is louder now, a frantic, chaotic hum that makes Liam’s skin crawl. People are still arguing, speculating, voices spiked with fear and accusation. Someone asks if the marshal was awake yet, while another shouts about needing answers before it was too late.
Through it all, Liam stands rooted in place, trying to make himself small, unnoticed. But the weight of those green eyes lingers, heavy as ever, like a hand pressing into his shoulder, keeping him pinned in place.
Scott’s voice cuts through the tension. “We don’t know for sure if there was a prisoner,” he says, addressing the group. “Even if she was escorting someone, that doesn’t mean they’re dangerous. Right now, all we know is that we’re in this together. That’s what matters.”
The murmurs quiet, though the unease remains, hanging heavy in the humid night air. Scott steps closer to the fire, the flickering light casting sharp shadows across his face. He looks around the group, meeting each person’s gaze with the kind of calm reassurance that felt rare in a moment like this.
“We’ve been through hell,” Scott announces, his voice steady but firm, cutting through the tension. “And I won’t stand here and pretend to have all the answers. I don’t. But I do know this: if we start turning on each other, letting fear control us, we won’t make it. We can’t afford that. Not here.”
The crowd is still now, all eyes on him. The faint crackle of the fire punctuate the silence, and even the ocean seems quieter, its gentle rhythm receding to the background.
“We survived the crash. We made it this far,” Scott continues, his tone lifting slightly, more hopeful. “And we’ll survive this, too. But only if we stick together. We take care of each other. Watch each other’s backs. If someone needs help, we help them. If someone’s struggling, we don’t leave them behind.”
His gaze sweeps the group, pausing on a few faces—Liam included. There is weight in his words, an urgency that couldn’t be ignored.
“Live together, die alone,” Scott declares, each word landing like a small spark against the crowd’s collective fear. “That’s the choice we have. And I think we’re better than letting fear decide for us.”
For a moment, the firelight seems to burn a little brighter, reflected in the weary but attentive faces of the survivors.
“Get some rest,” Scott says gently, his voice softening. “We’ll figure this out with the morning sun. Together.”
Liam nods absently, though he doubts he’d sleep. Around him, the group begins to break apart, some moving toward makeshift shelters cobbled together from scraps of the fuselage, while others settle on blankets or seats scavenged from the wreckage. A few still linger by the bigger fire, voices hushed as they mull over Scott’s words.
Liam’s gaze flicks across the beach, catching sight of him.
Their eyes meet for a fraction of a second, and Liam feels that same weight, the unspoken challenge buried in the other man’s calm, impenetrable expression. It's unnerving. Liam tears his gaze away and turns toward the water instead, the gentle lapping of the waves suddenly feeling deafening.
Above, the stars glitter cold and distant, heavy against the expanse of the night sky. Liam stuffs his hands deeper into his sweatshirt pockets, the weight of the cuff digging into his wrist, and lets out a slow breath. The world feels impossibly vast, and yet here they all are—stranded together, clinging to survival.