Mark woke up choking on salt and blood.
For a moment, he thought it was another nightmare. The island's air was thick, unmoving, pressing against his lungs. His body screamed in pain—every muscle sore, every joint aching like it had been bent the wrong way.
Then he smelled it.
Iron.
Rot.
Death.
His eyes snapped open.
Bodies.
All around him.
The mercenaries lay where they had fallen—broken, torn apart, scattered like discarded tools. Some were unrecognizable. Others… he knew too well. Faces burned into his memory from years of watching, learning, surviving.
His stomach twisted.
"No… no, no, no…"
He scrambled to his feet and stumbled forward, slipping in blood. He dropped to his knees beside one of them—the man who taught him how to track silently, how to hold a knife without shaking.
The man's chest was gone.
Mark screamed.
He crawled from body to body, shaking them, begging them to wake up. His hands trembled as he checked pulses he already knew weren't there.
Then he saw them.
The two kids.
The only ones who survived with him.
His breath hitched.
He dragged himself to them, choking on sobs. One lay twisted unnaturally, neck snapped. The other stared at the sky with empty eyes, chest torn open.
Mark collapsed between them.
"I didn't… I didn't do this…"
His voice cracked.
"I swear… I swear I didn't…"
He cried until his throat burned. Until his eyes hurt. Until nothing came out anymore.
He buried them.
properly—there were too many—he burried them really Deep, to give them silence. His hands worked on instinct, digging through dirt and ash, nails splitting and bleeding.
He didn't question how strong he felt.
He didn't want to.
That night, sleep came whether he wanted it or not.
And that's when the dreams began.
In dreams
He stood on the island again.
But taller.
Bigger.
His hands were claws.
His chest rose and fell like a beast's. He looked down and saw fur—black, thick, soaked in red.
Bodies at his feet.
He tried to scream.
A roar came out instead.
He woke up gasping, heart racing, sweat soaking the ground beneath him.
"No… no… it's just a dream…"
But the dreams didn't stop.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it clearer. Felt it deeper. The weight of his body. The power. The rage. The familiarity.
The worst part?
It felt right.
Mark stopped lying to himself.
He found his clothes—shredded, burned, torn apart. Not by claws from outside.
From inside.
He stared at his hands.
They looked normal.
Too normal.
But when he focused… really focused…
He heard things.
The wind cutting through trees miles away. Water sloshing against rocks far down the coast. A bird landing somewhere he couldn't even see.
His breath slowed.
Fear crawled up his spine.
"That wasn't a dream," he whispered.
The pieces clicked together, one by one.
The pain. The screams. The angel's presence. The thing tearing out of him.
"I killed them…"
The words tasted like poison.
He slammed his fist into the ground, hard enough to crack stone.
"I killed them all."
He screamed until his voice broke again.
Blamed the mercenaries. Blamed the island. Blamed the angel.
And finally—
Blamed himself.
Then next day
Something changed.
The grief didn't vanish.
It hardened.
His senses sharpened further—wider, deeper. Smells layered on top of each other. Sounds separated like threads. His body felt… awake, like it had been asleep his entire life and was only now stretching.
Then he heard it.
At first, he thought it was another hallucination.
A low, distant rumble.
Rhythmic.
Metal tearing through water.
His head snapped toward the horizon.
"…a ship?"
His heart slammed against his ribs.
It was impossible.
The island wasn't supposed to exist.
Something he didn't knew was that the moment The Angel stripped The Veil from the island, the island was no longer a supernatural error, it just appeared on this plane of existence.
But the sound of water slapping against the water grew louder.
Clearer.
Mark ran.
Bare feet pounding against sand and stone, lungs burning, muscles screaming—but he didn't slow down. He burst through the treeline and reached the shore.
Far out in the mist—
A cargo ship.
Real.
Moving.
He laughed.
Then cried.
Then screamed again, waving his arms like a madman.
They were too far.
He needed something bigger.
Something louder.
His hand went to his belt.
A grenade.
One of the mercenaries' last gifts.
He pulled the pin.
"Please," he whispered.
Then threw.
The grenade arced high into the air.
Mark focused—harder than he ever had in his life.
The world slowed.
He felt it.
The explosion detonated mid-air.
Fire and smoke bloomed against the sky like a signal flare from hell.
The ship's horn blared.
Mark dropped to his knees.
They saw him.
---
Three days later, he would leave the island.
The world would call him a miracle.
A survivor.
A victim.
No one would ever know what really happened there.
Except Mark.
And the beast that had already opened its eyes.
The phone felt heavy in Mark's hands.
Salt wind cut across the deck of the cargo ship, engines roaring beneath his feet, sailors shouting orders he couldn't hear over the pounding of his heart. His fingers trembled as he stared at the number burned into his memory—one he had whispered to himself every night on the island just to stay sane.
He pressed call.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
"Hello?"
Her voice.
Mark's breath hitched.
"M–mom," he said, barely louder than the wind. "It's me. Mark."
Silence.
Then—sharp, breaking disbelief.
"Who is this?" she snapped, her voice shaking. "Who is this, is this some kind of joke to you?"
His chest tightened.
"My son is dead," she said, breath hitching. "Don't—don't you dare—"
The call shifted, like she was about to pull the phone away.
"Mom—no—please!" Mark cried out. "Please don't cut the phone, please don't cut the phone, mom, please—"
His voice broke completely.
He was crying now. Ugly. Uncontrolled. The kind of sobs he hadn't allowed himself for years.
"please, mom, it's me—please—"he choked.
There was a sound on the other end.
A sharp inhale.
Then something shattered.
"…Mark?"
Her voice dropped to a whisper, like saying it too loud would break him again.
"Mark… is that you?"
He nodded instinctively, even though she couldn't see him.
"Yes," he sobbed. "Yes, it's me. I'm here. I'm alive."
The phone clattered faintly on her end—maybe she dropped it, maybe she had to sit down.
She started crying.
Not quiet tears.
The kind that rip out of your chest.
"How… how is this possible?" she gasped. "Where have you been? Where are you, my baby—where are you, tell me—"
Her voice rose, frantic now.
"I'm coming to get you right now. Tell me where you are. I'm coming, I swear—"
"I—I'm on a ship," Mark said quickly, wiping his face with his sleeve. "A cargo ship. They found me. I don't know where exactly—I was rescued—"
"You were alone?" she asked, voice trembling. "You survived all this time?"
Mark swallowed.
"Yes," he said.
The lie slid into place easier than it should have.
"I was alone," he repeated. "Everyone… everyone else died in the crash. I barely survived."
She broke down again.
"Oh God… oh God, I knew it," she cried. "I Just knew you were alive. I believed it,"
Her words blurred into sobs.
Mark closed his eyes.
For the first time since the island, his chest hurt for a reason that wasn't fear or guilt.
"I'm coming home," he whispered.