Warmth.
Not the cold, clutching darkness of the ocean depths, but a gentle, all-encompassing warmth that seeped into his skin like sunlight through leaves. Dante stirred, consciousness returning in slow waves. Sand. He felt sand beneath him—fine, soft, shifting slightly with his weight.
His eyes fluttered open.
Blue.
Endless, impossible blue.
Above him, a sky so clear it hurt to look at, dotted with only a few lazy puffs of cloud. The sun hung high, golden and inviting, casting a light that made everything shimmer. He blinked, squinting, and pushed himself up on his elbows.
He was on a beach.
Not just any beach. This one curved in a perfect crescent, white sand so pure it gleamed like powdered sugar. Palm trees lined the edge, their fronds swaying in a breeze that carried the scent of salt and something sweet—coconut, maybe, or tropical flowers. Beyond the sand, turquoise water lapped gently at the shore, crystal clear right up to where it deepened into sapphire farther out.
An atoll. A ring of coral enclosing a lagoon that looked like it had been photoshopped into reality.
Dante sat up fully, heart pounding. He was naked—clothes gone, but his body felt... different. Stronger. Younger. No ache in his knees from years of standing on boat decks, no twinge in his shoulder from old overuse. Skin tanned and toned, like he'd spent decades maintaining peak condition without trying.
He looked around, half-expecting Carey's bubbly voice to chime in with explanations. Nothing. Just the soft rush of waves and the distant call of seabirds.
No people. No boats on the horizon. No distant hum of engines or voices. Absolutely nothing but nature, pristine and untouched.
A laugh bubbled up in his chest—short, disbelieving. He stood, legs steady, and took a tentative step toward the water. The sand was warm under his feet, not scorching. Perfect.
This is real.
The thought hit him like a wave of its own. Carey hadn't been a dying hallucination. The rogue wave, the void, the whimsical voice—it had all led here. To this.
He walked to the water's edge, the lagoon so clear he could see colorful fish darting over coral heads twenty feet out. He waded in up to his ankles, then knees. The water was bath-warm, buoyant. He dove forward, slicing into it with a clean stroke.
Bliss.
He swam out a dozen yards, rolling onto his back to float. The sun warmed his face; the water cradled him. Schools of tiny silver fish flickered beneath him like living confetti. A larger shadow cruised by lazily—a reef fish, vibrant blue and yellow. No sharks. No threats. Just life, abundant and unhurried.
Dante treaded water, looking back at the beach. Palm trees heavy with green coconuts. Low shrubs dotted with what looked like edible fruits—bright red and yellow orbs he didn't recognize but instinctively knew were safe. A small stream trickled from the island's center, feeding into the lagoon with fresh water.
His own island. Forever.
The realization crashed over him fully then. No more rushing back to shore for work deadlines. No more dodging crowded boat ramps on weekends. No more pretending to care about small talk or social obligations. This was it—the quiet he'd chased his whole life, handed to him on a platter.
His throat tightened. Eyes stung.
He floated there, staring at the sky, and let the tears come. Not dramatic sobs—just silent tracks down his cheeks mixing with lagoon water. Relief so profound it ached. Happiness he hadn't known he could feel.
After a minute—or ten, time already felt irrelevant—he swam back to shore. The beach welcomed him like an old friend. He shook off the water, feeling alive in a way he hadn't since childhood.
Hunger tugged at him next. Not urgent, but present. He scanned the shallows. Fish everywhere—darting in and out of coral patches, unbothered by his presence.
He crouched at the edge, watching. A medium-sized fish, silvery with a forked tail, hovered near a rock. Parrotfish? Something similar, bright scales flashing. He waited, patient as ever. It edged closer, nibbling at algae.
His hand flashed out.
Got it.
The fish thrashed in his grip, strong but not impossible. He waded ashore, holding it carefully to avoid the spines. About two pounds—perfect for one meal. He dispatched it quickly with a rock, the way Grandpa had taught him. Respectful. Thankful.
Now fire.
Dry driftwood littered the treeline—palm fronds, branches bleached by sun. He gathered an armful, along with some fibrous bark for tinder. A flat stone served as a base. He'd started fires with less in survival shows he'd watched out of idle curiosity.
Kneeling, he twisted a stick into a notch he carved with a sharp shell. Friction. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but the breeze cooled him. Minutes passed—then smoke, then a tiny flame. He nurtured it carefully, feeding kindling until a steady fire crackled.
He gutted the fish with another sharp shell, rinsing it in the stream. Skewered it on a green stick, seasoned with nothing but salt air. Propped it over the flames.
The smell hit him first—sizzling flesh, smoky and rich. His stomach growled audibly.
He sat back on his heels, watching the fish cook. Golden skin blistering just right. Around him, the atoll hummed with life: birds flitting between palms, waves whispering secrets to the sand, fish jumping in the lagoon with occasional plops.
No phone buzzing. No emails. No one asking where he was or why he hadn't responded.
Just this.
The fish finished cooking. He pulled it off the fire, letting it cool a moment before tearing into it with his fingers. Flaky, moist, tasting of clean ocean and smoke. Better than any restaurant fillet he'd ever paid for.
He ate slowly, savoring every bite. When it was gone, he licked his fingers clean and leaned back against a palm trunk, belly full, body relaxed.
Dante gazed out over the lagoon. Sun dipping toward late afternoon now, painting the water in hues of gold and pink. Fish still schooled near the surface, begging to be caught. Tomorrow he'd fashion a rod—bamboo pole, vine line, bone hook. Or maybe just keep spearfishing. Didn't matter.
This is heaven.
The words formed in his mind, simple and true. He said them aloud, voice rough from disuse but steady.
"This is heaven."
A soft breeze answered, rustling the palms like approval.
He closed his eyes, letting the sounds wash over him. For the first time in his life—both of them—he felt completely, utterly at peace.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered Carey mentioning a system. A gacha something. But it hadn't appeared yet, and he wasn't about to go looking for it.
Not today. Maybe not ever.
Today was for this. For the quiet he'd earned.
The sun sank lower, and Dante dozed lightly, dreaming of nothing at all.