Y/n's eyes cracked open to a sky the color of bruised plums. Dawn, or maybe dusk. The beach was silver-black, wet sand glittering under a half-hidden moon.

The boat was gone.

In its place, a scattered graveyard of planks and rope, half-drowned in the tide. A single crate had washed up nearby, its lid hanging open, empty.

The air smelled thick. Green. Alive.

And then—a sound. Soft. Rhythmic. Like breathing, but too deep. Too slow.