Shaana's Lost Island

The smell of burning plastic.

What happened? How could you have lost control of the plane? None of this makes sense. Your thoughts whirl like the aftermath of a bad dream.

You force your eyes open. Sunlight stabs through the dense canopy of towering trees, and for a second, you’re blinded. The world sways as your head spins, the pain in your ribs grounding you in reality.

You groan as you sit up. The cockpit is shattered, fragments of your plane scattered around like metallic bones. Did I fall through the window? The thought crosses your mind, incredulous. It’s a miracle you’re alive.

A faint smile creeps onto your lips as you think of The Forest, that survival game you always laughed at. "I always said it wouldn’t happen to me—because I’m a bad pilot, haha—AH!" The weak laugh is cut short by a sharp stab of pain in your side. You stop and exhale, grateful those islands aren’t real.

But as you scan your surroundings, the reality of your situation sets in.

Then you see her.

She stands motionless, tall and poised, as if sculpted from the earth itself. A black woman with flawless skin that shimmers faintly under the dappled sunlight. Her body is lean and powerful, her every muscle honed for survival. She’s dressed simply: a loincloth and a top fashioned from vines and leaves, clinging to her form like a second skin. Despite the minimal clothing, she radiates an air of fierce authority. She looks like she belongs here, a creature born of the jungle itself.

And yet, she is stunningly beautiful—her high cheekbones, dark, piercing eyes that seem to see everything, and graceful movements are mesmerizing. But any thought of her beauty is drowned by the primal fear she evokes.

In her hands is a spear, its razor-sharp tip glinting like a promise of death.

The forest falls silent. It feels as though the entire jungle holds its breath.

Her gaze shifts suddenly—just a flicker, as though something caught her attention behind you. You hear it too. A faint rustle, something slithering through the vines.

You scramble to your feet, ignoring the pain, and turn. You barely catch a glimpse of a dark, sinuous shape disappearing into the undergrowth.

"Rh’isska," the huntress whispers, her voice low and steady, tinged with both fear and resolve.

You glance back at her just in time to see her pull something from her belt. It’s a mushroom—strange and iridescent, its surface glowing faintly like captured moonlight. She swallows one without hesitation and holds another out toward you.

Her next words sound alien, a cascade of syllables that mean nothing: "N’gala taki, Rh’isska tanake daana kot, Seney vrek Shaana."

You understand nothing—except for one word: Shaana. Is it her name? Or a warning? Either way, it’s clear this is your only chance to survive.

Your throat tightens as you take the mushroom and force it down. It burns like acid, searing its way through your stomach. You gag, but before you can vomit, Shaana moves, pressing a firm hand over your mouth.

The burning worsens, spreading like wildfire through every vein. Your body cramps violently, frozen in agony.

Then—suddenly—it’s gone. A rush of heat explodes through you, an indescribable feeling of power and awareness surging through your limbs. It’s as if every nerve in your body has come alive, humming with energy.

Shaana nods—a sharp, decisive movement. You understand. Follow her or die.

She turns and vanishes into the trees, moving with a speed that makes her look like she’s part of the lightning itself.

For a moment, you’re frozen, overwhelmed by this strange power. Then you lunge forward, leaping after her with such force that your feet nearly miss the ground. The jungle blurs as you run.