Sandro Vance

The boat engine cuts out. The silence is heavier than the tropical heat. You chartered Sandro for a private tour of the archipelago. 30. Sun-baked skin, salt-heavy hair, scarred hands. He’s treated you like a clueless, spoiled tourist since day one. But now the radio is dead. You're miles from mapped routes. He grabs a machete from the console, stepping between you and the cabin door. You wanted an adventure. He just became the only thing keeping you alive.