Mark didn't let go of the phone until they told him he had to.
Even then, his mother's voice stayed with him—anchoring him, pulling him back into a world that still existed without blood-soaked sand and screaming nights.
When the ship docked, everything felt unreal.
Sirens. Cameras. Uniforms.
Hands guided him, not roughly, but carefully—like he might shatter if touched the wrong way. Someone wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. Another offered water. Questions came, slow and gentle at first.
"What's your name?" "How old are you?" "Do you remember the crash?"
Mark answered exactly what he had practiced in his head.
"My name is Mark Swinton. I was twelve when the plane went down. Everyone else died. I survived alone."
No hesitation. No extra detail.
They nodded, wrote things down, exchanged looks heavy with pity.
A miracle, they called him.
His parents were waiting when he arrived to Seattle City, Washington DC.
He arrived in a police vehicle,
The moment Mark stepped out of the car,
His mother didn't walk toward him.
She ran.
She collided with him so hard it knocked the breath from his lungs, arms wrapping around him like she was afraid he'd disappear if she loosened her grip.
"You're real," she sobbed into his hair. "You're really here."
His father stood a step behind her, eyes red, hands shaking as he finally placed them on Mark's shoulders—solid, grounding.
"You grew," he said while controlling his tears.
Mark nodded.
The official narrative spread fast.
Plane crash.
Uncharted island.
Sole survivor.
News anchors called it tragedy. Psychologists called it dissociation. Lawyers called it negligence.
Mark wasn't asked to testify.
They said it would be "too traumatic."
No one wanted the truth.
And Mark wasn't offering it.
Home didn't feel smaller.
It felt… fragile.
Walls seemed thinner. Sounds sharper.
He heard the refrigerator hum from two floors away. He heard his father's heartbeat when they hugged. He heard his mother crying at night when she thought he was asleep.
So he stayed quiet.
Stayed controlled.
Stayed human.
He locked his door every night—not out of fear, but out of responsibility.
Because once, he had lost control.
And people died.
The tutors arrived one by one.
They thought he'd struggle.
They were wrong.
Mark absorbed information unnervingly fast. Math clicked instantly. Reading comprehension bordered on obsessive. He memorized entire chapters without realizing he was doing it.
Focus wasn't effort.
It was instinct.
Still, it took time.
Months of structured days. Long hours. No distractions.
His parents watched him closely, but they didn't push.
They were just grateful he was breathing in the same house again.
Eighteen months later
Mark finnally completed his Home schooling covering the syllabus of past four years he couldn't attend.
Today was a Full Moon
Every full moon, Mark disappeared.
No phone. No excuses.
To an abandoned property on the edge of the city, far away from his home. half-collapsed, forgotten, fenced off by time rather than locks. The basement was reinforced. Chains bolted into concrete. Old, heavy, unbreakable.
He'd done this for months.
Preparation. Control. Survival.
The beast came every time.
But contained.
Managed.
He always woke up bruised, exhausted, alive.
No one got hurt.
That's what mattered.
It was finally the time for him to join the high school.
Seattle woke up gray.
Not dramatic gray.
The dull, wet kind that pressed against the windshield and made everything feel muted—like the city itself was tired.
Mark sat in the passenger seat, hands resting on his knees, knuckles pale. He hadn't worn a uniform in years. The fabric of his hoodie felt wrong on his shoulders, like it didn't belong to the same body that had hunted animals barehanded and slept with one eye open.
His mom kept glancing at him while driving.
Not talking. Just checking. Like she was afraid he'd disappear again if she blinked too long.
"You don't have to stay the whole day," she said finally, voice gentle but tight. "If it's too much—"
"I'll stay," Mark said.
His voice sounded normal. That still surprised him.
The school rose ahead of them—tall, clean, expensive. Glass and steel. Too many windows. Too many places to be seen.
The same kind of school he'd left.
His mom parked. Turned to him. Smiled, even though her eyes were wet.
"No matter what happens in there," she said, touching his arm, "you come home. Okay?"
He nodded.
She didn't let go immediately.
The moment Mark stepped inside, everything stopped.
Not literally. But it felt like it.
Conversations dipped. Laughter stumbled. Heads turned.
He felt it instantly—the weight of eyes, the unspoken question:
Is that him?
The kid who disappeared.
The one who survived.
The island Guy.
Mark kept walking.
Each step echoed too loudly in his ears. His body knew how to move through danger, through jungles and blood and fire—but this?
This was worse.
A girl whispered something to her friend.
A guy near the lockers stared too long.
Someone dropped a pen and didn't even notice.
He adjusted the strap of his bag and walked in.
Inside, everything felt too clean. Too safe. Glass walls, polished floors, banners about excellence and legacy. He hated how fragile it all looked. How easily it could burn.
When he entered the classroom, the noise dipped—not silence, but hesitation. Like a room deciding how to react to a stranger who shouldn't exist.
Mark chose a seat near the window and sat down without looking at anyone.
Behind him, a chair scraped softly.
"Relax," a voice said. Calm. Casual. Not loud. "If they stare any harder, they'll strain something."
Mark turned.
The guy behind him wasn't grinning like an idiot. He wasn't smirking either. Just… open. Alert eyes. Athletic build. Someone who belonged here.
"I'm Simon," the guy continued. "You're Mark right? ,Not because of rumors—because no one else walks like they're expecting an ambush."
That got Mark's attention.
"…Good observation," Mark said.
Simon shrugged. "well not to brag but my older brother plays basketball, and You have to learn to read body language or else you get steamrolled."
Before Mark could reply, a chair slid out two rows ahead.
"Simon," a girl's voice said flatly, "if you're already making friends, at least wait until the teacher shows up."
Iris Hale
She didn't look at him when she spoke.
She was leaning back, arms crossed, eyes sharp with irritation that seemed permanent. Like the world had disappointed her early and never recovered.
Simon smiled—not flirtatious, not forced. Familiar.
"Yes, Your Highness," he said. "I'll behave."
She rolled her eyes. "You never do."
"And yet," Simon replied easily, "you still sit near me. Curious."
She finally glanced back—then froze.
Her eyes met Mark's.
Not curiosity. Not interest.
A sense of familiarity.
For half a second, something unreadable crossed her face—like she'd felt a resemblance she couldn't explain.
Then she looked away.
"Simon don't you drag him into your nonsense," she said. "He already looks like he wants to disappear."
Mark almost laughed.
Almost.
The teacher walked in, and the room settled.
Class passed quietly. Too quietly. Mark wrote notes, answered when spoken to, ignored the weight pressing on his senses. He kept catching Iris looking at the window, jaw tight. Like she was trapped in a place she owned but didn't control.
Simon leaned back once, whispering, "She's always like that. School irritates her. People irritate her more."
Mark didn't respond.
When the bell rang, chairs scraped and voices returned. Simon stood, stretching.
"So," he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder, "you doing gym next?"
"Yes," Mark replied.
Simon nodded, studying him for a moment—not prying, not joking.
"You should play basketball with us," he said. "Just a pickup game. No pressure."
Mark hesitated.
Crowds. Movement. Noise.
Simon added, quieter now, "It helps. Trust me."
Mark looked toward the door.
Then back at Simon.
"…Alright," he said.
Simon smiled—not wide, not loud. Just satisfied.
"Cool," he said. "Let's see what you've got."