As I tumble, head over heels, over and over again, hitting my head, back and knees against pretty much everything in the room, I make a promise to myself to never set foot on a boat again. It's what got me in this mess. In the span of, what, four hours, I fell off one boat, almost drowned, and now this boat is rolling over and beating the shit out of me.

  Well, it was for a time anyway before I somehow found myself halfway out the... window? I don't know what they call the windows on a ship, nautical terms are as varied and nonsensical as the people that invented them.

  I’m dangling halfway out the window—porthole?—my legs still filing inside the room while the rest of me gets a nice, close view of open ocean churning like a blender set to destroy. Salt spray sps my face as the ship tilts past vertical, the entire vessel beginning to roll as though something titanic is pushing up from directly beneath it. My only thought is:

  I fucking hate boats.

  The horizon vanishes. Water explodes upward as something massive breaches beneath the ship. Not a whale. Not a storm. This is something else.

  The ship inverts, and gravity rips me out of the porthole like I’ve been yanked by a cosmic hook.

  Then I hit the water.

  It’s like crashing into ice and fire all at once. The cold steals my breath, the heat of the creature’s proximity boils the surface, and the pressure of both sends me tumbling beneath the waves.

  Underwater, it’s chaos. The current is all wrong—swirling in massive vortices, dragging me down, spinning me sideways. I catch glimpses through the foam and blood and silt: glowing cracks, searing red, cws like obsidian mountains tearing through the seabed.

  My lungs are burning.

  The surface is too far. The monster too close.

  And then—nothing.

  I wake up coughing saltwater, face-first in sand. My body aches, my clothes are torn, and my lungs are fighting me with every breath. For a moment, I just lie there, groaning, letting the sun beat down on me through the gaps in the tree canopy.

  Wait. Tree canopy?

  I lift my head and look around. I’m not on the ship. I’m not even in the ocean. I’ve washed up... somewhere.

  Thick green foliage surrounds me—towering trees with roots the size of houses, vines hanging like curtains, birds shrieking in the distance. The air is humid, the kind of sticky heat that clings to your skin like a second yer.

  Where the hell am I?

  The System chooses now to chime in again. Of course it does.

  [Survival Mode Engaged]

  Bioenergy Status: Critically Low

  Recommendation: Secure food, shelter, and assess threats immediately.

  No shit.

  I pull myself up, wobbling on shaky legs, and take a few stumbling steps innd, away from the crashing surf.

  Wherever I’ve ended up, it’s wild, untamed—and worse—I’m alone.

  Fantastic.

  Just... fucking fantastic.

  I force myself to keep moving, skirting past thick brush and fallen logs, ignoring the thorns that tear at my sleeves. After what feels like an hour of trudging through dense undergrowth, I spot a shallow rise in the nd where the tree roots form a sort of natural archway. Beneath it, a shallow depression in the earth offers just enough room to curl up in—dry, shaded, and partially protected from the elements.

  It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing.

  I don’t have a tent. No firestarter. No sleeping roll. Just the soaked, torn clothes on my back and a grudge against fate.

  Still, I colpse into the hollow with a sigh, leaning against the twisted roots. My muscles are screaming, and every breath tastes like salt and dirt. But for now, I’m alive.

  And I’ve got work to do.

  I scan the nearby foliage for anything remotely edible. After a bit of careful poking and more than a little hesitation, I spot a thick patch of squat, bluish ferns sprouting pale berries. I test one against my lip—no stinging. A tentative bite—bitter, but no immediate nausea. Good enough.

  I gather a handful of the berries and force myself to eat them slowly, ignoring the awful taste. The System doesn’t fsh a warning, which I take as a small miracle.

  Then I get lucky.

  Near a bend in a stream, I spot movement—something bird-like but small, hopping between mossy rocks. I crouch, watching it intently. It’s maybe the size of a house cat, with sleek, rust-colored feathers and long tail plumes tipped in vibrant green. Its beak is narrow, curved slightly like a raptor’s, and two glowing yellow eyes flick constantly as it pecks at the ground. Its legs are thin but powerful, each foot ending in three spyed toes and a wicked rear talon. A frill of thin, membranous feathers fans from the back of its head, twitching with each sound.

  It’s beautiful.

  And very much edible.

  I wait until it turns, hops closer to the water, and then I spring—shing out with a rock in one hand. It squawks, wings fpping, but I manage to catch it by the neck with an awkward, desperate swing. It goes limp in my hands after a moment.

  I have no idea what it is. But it’s food.

  Taking it back to my hollow, I pluck a few of the feathers, crack open the skin with a sharp edge of stone, and dig out raw strips of meat. It’s gamey and tough and nearly makes me puke, but I force it down.

  That’s enough for me.

  And, apparently, It's enough for the system to give me a new notification.