POV: Jun-ho
The morning sunlight stretched across the island like a slow hand creeping over cold stone.
The dorm courtyard, which had seemed almost safe yesterday, felt smaller now—constricted by the ocean's horizon and the cluster of buildings looming around us. A thin fog lingered, clinging to the sea breeze and carrying a faint tang of salt, rust, and something else I couldn't name. Something sharp.
Students began gathering under the flagpole for the morning assembly.
Their chatter was low, uneasy, like the air itself was warning us not to relax.
Ara stood a few steps away, arms folded, eyes scanning the horizon as though she could detect danger before it reached us. I fell beside her, letting the quiet between us settle. The tension didn't need words yet; it was understood.
"Good morning, students." Daeho began, his voice unusually clipped.
"Due to an unexpected incident in the northern research facility, the island will be under temporary lockdown. Ferry services are suspended until further notice. We ask everyone to remain calm and stay within campus grounds." He said.
The words should have been reassuring. They weren't.
The students shifted, murmuring. Some laughed nervously; others stiffened. A knot tightened in my stomach.
I studied Daeho. His jaw was rigid, the line of his shoulders too tight. The phrase "temporary lockdown" sounded like a bureaucrat's euphemism for something catastrophic.
After the assembly, Ara and I walked a few steps away from the crowd, close enough to speak quietly.
"They didn't answer why the ferry's suspended. And notice how they avoided saying anything about the research facility? Just a vague 'incident.'" I murmured. Ara's eyes flicked to me, sharp and calculating.
"Something's off. It's not how they normally handle logistics. And they were too rehearsed—like they were saying exactly what they wanted us to hear." She said softly.
I nodded. The unease in her tone mirrored my own thoughts. The lockdown wasn't temporary; it was containment. The question was, containment from what? And who?
Minjae approached then, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. "You know, if they locked us down for too long, maybe we'll finally have a legit excuse to skip morning jogging." He said with a grin
I forced a small smile, though it didn't reach my eyes. Ara's lips twitched, a brief, fleeting acknowledgment of humor, but we both knew it couldn't cut through the tension.
"Yeah, until the island decides to eat us for breakfast." I said, keeping my tone light
Minjae laughed, the sound bright and dissonant against the foggy morning. I realized then that even small jokes mattered. They kept morale alive, fragile as it was.
—
By mid-morning, Jisoo had retreated to the study hall. I found him hunched over a stack of old reports and local news archives, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"They're not just hiding the ferry issue. There've been other incidents…smaller, unreported accidents, containment issues. Strange disappearances over the past decade. It's systematic." He muttered, almost to himself.
I leaned over his shoulder. "Systematic?"
"Yeah." He said quietly, tracing his finger along the text.
"Every time something unusual happens, the authorities cover it up. Patterns repeat. They clean the island's record like nothing ever happened. If this 'incident' follows the same trend…" He didn't finish the thought, but I understood.
A chill ran down my spine. The island wasn't just locked down. It was a controlled environment now, an experiment, a cage.
—
Evening crept in slow and gray, the fog thickening like wet wool.
The courtyard emptied as students retreated to their rooms. I stayed outside, leaning against the railing overlooking the sea.
Waves lapped against the cliffs below, a rhythmic reminder that the world was indifferent to us.
I watched the horizon. The ferry would not return. The mainland would not intervene. We were cut off, isolated. Ara appeared silently at my side, her presence quiet but grounding. "You're thinking too much." She said, almost teasing, though her eyes were serious.
"Maybe. But thinking isn't going to keep us alive. Observation, understanding…that's how we survive. I need to know what's coming before it hits us." I admitted.
She didn't argue. She just nodded and adjusted the strap of her bow. I realized then that she trusted me to think, to lead, even if I hadn't yet accepted it fully.
—
Nightfall brought a deceptive calm.
Students slept or whispered in their rooms, the corridors dimly lit by flickering fluorescent bulbs. I moved quietly, observing, noting the subtle sounds—the creak of the dorm stairs, the distant crash of waves, and the faint rustle of leaves in the forest beyond campus grounds.
And then I heard it.
A faint noise, far off, almost drowned by the wind and waves. A scream, low and fractured, carried over the trees. The kind of scream that didn't belong in a peaceful morning or a locked-down campus.
"Did you hear that? Someone's screaming…" Some students in the hallway whispered to each other.
My chest tightened.
That scream wasn't human in its panic—it was fear crystallized, pure and raw. My mind raced. Was it a student from another dorm? Was it something else? I gritted my teeth, pushing down the instinct to run toward the sound. Observation first. Assess. Plan.
Responsibility was forming inside me, heavy and immovable.
I wasn't just a student anymore. I was the one who would have to make the decisions if the chaos came to our doorstep. And it would come.
I leaned against the railing of the balcony, listening, feeling the weight of the island pressing in from every side—the forest behind us, the cliffs below, and the ocean that offered no escape
No ferry would return. No authority would intervene.
We were alone.
And I was beginning to understand that leadership wasn't about giving orders. It was about bearing the weight of fear—and deciding who survived under it.
The scream came again, a brief, shivering echo. Somewhere in the darkness, something was happening. Something that would demand more than courage. Something that would demand control.
And I knew, in the deep quiet of that night, that the island had just drawn the first line in the sand.
No one could cross it.