"Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me," she croaked, her voice rasping like the scrape of sandpaper. Each syllable was a struggle, her parched throat crying out for the water she no longer had. Her cracked lips moved on instinct, the song a thin thread tethering her to reality. Even a single drop of water—a puddle, a mirage—might bring relief. But the sea offered no sympathy, its endless expanse mocking her with its cruel, undrinkable abundance.

The world she had once known felt like a fable, slipping further from memory with each passing day. She had lived a life of wealth and privilege, her every need met without effort. Her skin, once as smooth as porcelain, had been pampered with creams that smelled of roses and rain. Now, her hands trembled as they brushed against her blistered face, the pain a constant reminder of her fragility. Her skin burned red, raw and peeling, each movement tearing at the fragile scabs that barely held her together.

Her reflection haunted her mind, though she hadn't seen it in months. She imagined her aristocratic features—the sharp cheekbones, the high-bridged nose, the proud curve of her lips—now warped by the scars of fire and salt. The burns on her right cheek stung fiercely, the dead skin flaking away to reveal tender, pink flesh beneath. Her once-luxurious black hair, often envied, now hung in uneven clumps. Loose strands clung to her clothing and stuck to her damp, feverish skin.

I must look like a monster now, she thought bitterly.

Her fingers absently scratched at her cheek, dislodging a dried fish scale that had clung stubbornly for days. It was the only meal she'd managed in almost a week, and the memory of its taste—a blend of brine and decay—made her stomach churn.

That stomach now twisted painfully, the emptiness an unrelenting ache. Hunger had become her constant companion, more oppressive than the unyielding sun above. Her body was little more than skin stretched taut over bone, every rib a sharp ridge visible beneath the ragged remains of her clothing. The ocean had stripped away much of her dignity, leaving her a shadow of the girl she had been.

134 days earlier.

"Honey," her father's voice was gentle, coaxing her like he used to when she was a little girl refusing to do her homework. "He's a nice gentleman. I promise."

Ren's hands curled into fists. The plane's interior felt too small, too suffocating for the conversation she was trapped in. "I don't want to meet him," she snapped, her voice sharp and full of venom. "You're just trying to use me to expand your business. I bet he's old, fat, and disgusting!"

Her father flinched, his expression briefly wounded, but it was her mother who spoke next. "Ren, enough." Claire's tone was firm, the one she reserved for scolding. "We're not selling you off. We only want you to meet him. He's a good man, and you might like him if you gave him a chance."

Ren crossed her arms, glaring out the window at the fluffy clouds below. "I don't want to! They don't care about me; they care about our money."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her parents exchange a glance. Her father reached across the armrest to take her mother's hand. They always did that—small gestures of comfort, as if reminding each other that no argument was ever big enough to break their bond.

That was the last thing she remembered before the explosion.

A deafening roar, a flash of blinding light. The cabin turned into chaos as fire consumed everything in its path. Screams filled the air, mingling with the acrid smell of burning plastic and flesh. Ren's seatbelt dug into her torso as the plane bucked wildly. Her parents' hands—once clasped—were wrenched apart by the force of the blast.

She could still see their faces, frozen in terror, as the flames devoured them.

Ren woke up to cold water splashing over her. For one disoriented moment, she thought she was dead, her body floating weightless in a void. But the pain in her burns and the sharp sting of salt water proved otherwise. She clung to a piece of the plane's wing, her fingers numb and bloodied from gripping it too tightly. Around her, the ocean was a graveyard, scattered with wreckage and bodies. Charred remains bobbed on the surface, their lifeless eyes staring blankly at the sky.

She had forced herself to look away, choking back sobs as she searched for anything that could help her survive. The wreckage yielded little: a few bags of chips, some honey-roasted peanuts, a handful of soda cans, and precious bottles of water. She also found two bottles of alcohol—wine and champagne, neither of which would quench her thirst but might numb her fear. A notebook and pen floated nearby, which she snatched with trembling hands. Writing, she decided, might help her hold onto her sanity.

It was how she had survived the first week. Then the first month. Then the next.

Day 130:
The notebook was now nearly full, its pages a chaotic mixture of confessions, observations, and fragmented thoughts. On the first page, she had written a declaration of her identity:

My name is Ren Monroe. I am 19 years old, born January 16, 1996. I was the daughter of George and Claire Monroe. I was rich. I was spoiled. And now I am alone. I am the sole survivor of a plane crash. This is my story.

The entries grew darker as her ordeal dragged on.

I see the faces of my friends. They're laughing at me. Mocking me. Telling me I deserve this. I hate them. I hate myself. Shut up. Shut up. SHUT UP.

To drown out the voices in her head, she sang songs from her favorite childhood movies.

"We're rascals and scoundrels, we're villains and knaves.
Drink up, me hearties, yo ho."

Her nails tapped the rhythm against the metal raft as she hummed. It was a distraction, but it was growing harder to hold onto hope. Each night, the cold seeped into her bones, and each morning brought another day of isolation.

One more day, she thought. I'll give it one more day before I let the ocean take me.

That was when she heard the splash.

Her body reacted before her mind could catch up, lurching toward the sound. Hunger clawed at her insides, making her stomach cramp painfully. She squinted against the glare of the sun, her vision blurry.

Then she heard it—a voice.

"You don't look so good," it said, deep and smooth, like the first note of a melody she couldn't quite remember.

Ren turned her head, her heart pounding. A figure stood at the edge of her raft—a man, his dark hair tousled by the wind.

"H-h-help," she croaked, her voice barely more than a whisper. Her strength gave out, and the world tilted as she collapsed into the black void of unconsciousness