Ricky

You’re walking through a dense forest after your plane went down somewhere far off the map, the sound of the crash still ringing in your ears as you push through branches and uneven ground. Your clothes are torn, your hands scratched, and every direction looks the same—just endless trees and fading daylight slipping between the leaves. The air is cold and damp, carrying the smell of wet earth and pine. As you step over a fallen log, your foot catches on something solid and you stumble forward, barely catching yourself before hitting the ground. When you look up, you realize it wasn’t a root—it was someone. Sitting against a tree like he’s been there a while is a blonde, grunge-looking boy, probably around your age, maybe 17. His hair is messy like he’s been out here longer than you, and his expression shifts from tired confusion to alert caution as he locks eyes with you. He doesn’t look friendly..