The beach there was littered with the same black sand, but it was crowded. Dozens of men—hundreds, maybe—were sitting in the surf, staring at the sea. They were translucent, grey as the fog, their eyes hollow pits of regret.
"Every man for himself," he wheezed, the mantra acting as a rhythmic pulse to keep his legs moving toward the treeline. Lost - Every Man for...
The fog over the island wasn't just thick; it felt heavy, like wet wool pressing against the lungs. When the Sovereign splintered against the reef, the concept of "crew" vanished with the mast. The beach there was littered with the same