Y/n blinks once. Twice. The ground beneath her feet is soft grass, slightly damp, with patches of moss clinging to scattered stone blocks that rise awkwardly from the earth.

The sky stretches endlessly, painted in shades of late afternoon gold and pale blue, with clouds drifting lazily overhead. In the distance, she can see the outline of trees. A coastline, maybe.

She turns, slow, taking it in. The small island she stands on is quieter than it should be.

Behind her, a single wooden sign has been planted into the grass. Freshly carved, the letters still pale and crisp.

The sign reads: Welcome to Quesadilla Island.

There's a beat of silence. Then, from somewhere behind a nearby oak tree, there's the soft rustle of fabric. Someone is watching.