The cabin smelled like wood, smoke, and something faintly herbal. Not bad. Just lived-in. Real.

There was a small kitchen, a worn couch, a table covered in scattered tools and scrap metal. A single bed against the wall, unmade. A lantern flickered softly in the corner.

“You can sit,” Sam said. “I’ll get some water going. You look like you could use tea or... ten hours of sleep.”

“Can’t argue with either,” she muttered, lowering herself carefully onto the couch.

For a moment, she just sat there. Letting the silence wrap around her. Letting herself exist without expectation. No voices blaming her, no sister outshining her, no father reminding her how disappointing she was.

Just quiet.

Then she glanced over at him.

“Why are you really here?” she asked.

Sam looked up from the kettle, expression unreadable. “Same reason you are, probably.”

“And what’s that?”

“Trying to disappear.”

Callista didn’t say anything to that. But the words sat heavy between them.

She didn’t know if she could trust him.

But in this moment, in this cabin, after everything she’d survived, trusting him still felt safer than returning to the world that tried to erase her.

She stayed seated, elbows resting on her knees, fingers loosely tangled. She watched as Sam moved around the small cabin, grabbing an old tin mug, lighting the portable stove with practiced ease, filling a metal kettle with water from a large jug.

She let her gaze wander to the table nearby, cluttered with… stuff.

She leaned forward, her nose scrunching instinctively.

The table was a chaotic mess of tools, wires, a half-finished radio or maybe a fishing rig—she couldn’t really tell. A few old notebooks were stacked on one side, and a screwdriver was jammed into what looked like a flashlight that had lost the will to live. Dust clung to the corners, and there was a weird, unidentifiable metallic smell floating around the whole thing.

“Wow,” she muttered, tilting her head at the mess. “So you’re either a handyman or a survivalist hoarder.”

Sam turned slightly, just enough to glance at her over his shoulder. “I call it organized chaos.”

“You’d lose a fight with a vacuum.”

He gave a dry chuckle and turned back to the boiling kettle. “Probably.”

A few minutes later, he walked over and handed her a warm mug. The tin was scratched and dented, but the tea inside smelled surprisingly comforting—minty, a little sharp.

She wrapped her fingers around it, grateful for the heat. Her hands were still trembling faintly.

“Drink that,” he said. “It’s not poison, I swear.”

She took a sip and immediately winced. “Hot.”

“Still not poison, though,” he added with a faint smile, setting a small pill bottle down beside her on the table. “And these might help. Painkillers. Nothing too intense. Just something to take the edge off.”

She eyed the bottle, then looked up at him. “You always offer strangers tea and drugs?”

“Only the ones who wash up on my beach half-dead.”

She snorted softly and took another careful sip. The warmth slid down her throat, calming something inside her she hadn’t realized was screaming.

Sam glanced toward the door, then back at her. “You should lie down for a bit. The bed’s not fancy, but it’s better than passing out on that couch.”

Her eyes flicked toward the single bed. It looked small, but clean—blankets rumpled but fresh.

“And you?” she asked.

“I’ll be outside for a while. Need to check some things.”

Her brow creased. “What kind of things?”

He gave that same vague, non-answer shrug. “Just things. I’ll be close by.”

Something about the way he said it—low, steady—made her believe him.

She nodded, slowly. “Fine. But if I wake up chained to the wall, I’m throwing that tea at your face.”

He gave her a half-smile as he walked toward the door. “Fair enough.”

Then he was gone—leaving the door slightly ajar, the soft breeze trailing in behind him.

Callista looked at the tea, the pills, and the bed.

She didn’t know where she was. Didn’t know who he really was. But for now, she was warm, dry, and breathing. And that was more than she’d had in a long time.

She didn’t remember lying down. One minute she was sitting with the mug in her hand, still warm, still unsure if she should even be drinking it—and the next, her head hit the pillow.

Or maybe she just tipped sideways like a sack of laundry.

She couldn’t tell if it was the tea, the pills, the exhaustion, or just the sheer relief of not having to fight anymore—but sleep took her fast and deep.

And for once, she didn’t dream.

Just silence.

When she opened her eyes again, the light outside had changed. Warmer. Lower. The kind of golden haze that came right before sundown. For a second, she didn’t even remember where she was.

Then the ache in her ribs reminded her.

Callista blinked slowly, shifting under the rough blanket. Her body still hurt, but not as sharp as before. And for the first time in—God, she didn’t even know how long—she felt like she’d actually slept. Not the broken half-sleep she was used to, but real, body-numbing, deep sleep.

But something wasn’t right.

She heard voices.

Low. Male. Coming from outside the cabin.

She froze.

One of them was Sam’s—calm, low, even. She recognized it now, the way he spoke like nothing ever rattled him.

But the other voice?

Not his.

Deeper. Rougher. A little agitated.

She couldn’t make out what they were saying, but it didn’t sound casual. It didn’t sound like two guys catching up about the weather.

She pushed the blanket off slowly, legs swinging over the side of the bed. Her bare feet hit the wooden floor with a soft thud. Every instinct buzzed to life again. Her body might still be weak, but her gut wasn’t.

Sam wasn’t alone.

And that sure as hell wasn’t what he told her earlier.

She crept toward the door, quietly as she could manage. The voices grew clearer.

“…you weren’t supposed to bring anyone here,” the other man said sharply.

“I didn’t intend to,” Sam replied, steady. “She washed up. I couldn’t exactly leave her to rot on the beach.”

Callista’s heart thudded.

She leaned closer, just enough to peek through the crack in the door.

There he was—Sam—standing a few yards away from the porch. He looked the same as before: calm, unreadable. But there was something tight in his jaw now.

And across from him stood another slightly older man wearing a dark jacket and boots covered in dirt. The trees shadowed his face, but his body language said it all. He wasn’t happy and friendly.

And he definitely didn’t want her here.

Her mouth went dry.

Who was this guy? His friend? His boss? His accomplice?

She stepped back quietly, heart pounding in her ears.

Sam had lied. She just didn’t know what about yet.

Callista stayed low, crouched by the half-open door, her heart banging against her ribs like it was trying to warn her—you shouldn’t be hearing this.

But she couldn’t stop.

She had to know what they were saying. Because Sam wasn’t alone, and whoever that other man was, he clearly wasn’t some friendly neighbor dropping by with coconuts.

“…you’re lucky she’s even alive,” the older man was saying, his voice firm and a little rough, like someone used to giving bad news without sugar-coating it. “From the looks of it, her system’s been through hell. Bruised ribs, dehydration, borderline hypothermia, and did you see the bruising on her neck? Could’ve been way worse.”

Callista’s mouth went dry. He saw me? When? What else did he check?

She leaned in a little closer, careful not to bump the creaky floorboards.

There was a pause. The older man let out a tired breath.

“She shouldn’t be up this fast. If she’s been drugged or sedated recently—which I’m pretty damn sure she has—that kind of cocktail doesn’t wear off like that. Not without something strong pushing her system.”

Callista’s stomach twisted. Drugged?

She remembered the weird sluggishness, the fog, how she couldn’t even scream properly during the storm.

Her jaw clenched.

Lyla. Julian.

Of course.

They hadn’t just taken her out for some final good-sister goodbye cruise. They had prepped her for disposal.

“You’re saying someone doped her up before she got on that boat?” Sam asked quietly.

“Could be. Would explain a lot. And look—if you’re serious about helping her, you need to get her off this island. This place is fine for fishing and hiding out, but it’s not a damn hospital. She needs scans, fluids, monitoring. Hell, probably therapy.”

“She just woke up,” Sam muttered.

“Exactly. This is the window. Take her to the mainland before she crashes again.”

Another silence.

Callista barely breathed. Her knees ached. Her ribs throbbed. But none of that compared to the sharp panic racing up her spine.

She hadn’t thought it through.

She’d woken up, seen a stranger, and followed him into the woods like it was the only option.

Now here she was—listening to strangers talk about her like she was a patient, a case file, a problem.

And worse?

They were right.

She was a mess. And she didn’t know if Sam was really trying to help… Or just deciding what to do with her next.