Splash.

  What was that sound?

  Splash.

  Why did it feel salty and damp?

  Splash.

  Waves. Yes, that’s it. Waves rolling against a shore. Was I on a beach?

  The last thing I remembered was running out of ammo, our pursuers bullets raining down on us, Hakim yelling at me to run faster, darkness – and then, nothing.

  My pulse quickened. I should have died. Why was I still alive?

  I stayed still, still enough to pass as dead, scanning my surrounding with half-open eyes, careful not to reveal I was awake. If there were enemies nearby, I couldn’t risk giving them the smallest reason to think I was still alive. I needed to assess the situation first.

  My vision slowly adjusted to the aggressive light of the sun. This was definitely the beach, with white sand stretching as far as the eye could see and turquoise waves splashing on the sand. But there was no sound, no human presence at all, no birds either.

  I shifted slightly, careful to keep my movements subtle, testing my body's condition. Although my muscles ached as if I’d been through hell training with my mercenary squad, I was relieved to find my body was whole. No missing limbs, no broken bones, no bullet wounds, no open injury. Everything was fine.

  What worried me was something else.

  A scorching dryness burned my throat raw. From my missions in the desert, I knew this level of dehydration was dangerous. I needed to quickly find water before kicking the bucket.

  I instinctively put my right hand on my hip, to check my gun hostler. Empty, of course, they wouldn’t leave me with a weapon.

  At least I was alive. I shouldn’t have been. Eric, Tania, and Daniel had gone first. Hakim and I held out longer, but we both knew it was futile. The organization had betrayed us, to protect some daddy’s boy who’d botched his first mercenary job. In his rage, the client had put an astronomical bounty on our heads. Countless elite assassins and mercenaries hunted us down. We couldn’t trust our past acquaintances anymore, we fought hard but the end result was obvious.

  It was supposed to be the end. Those bullets, I couldn't have dodged them all. It was impossible. My survival in itself was a miracle, and the total absence of wounds on my body was an anomaly.

  But if I didn’t die, why let me live? Why dump me here uninjured? What about Hakim?

  Let's not think about this uncanny situation now, survival came first.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  I forced myself into a sitting position, sand clinging to the damp fabric of my tactical gear, chafing my skin raw. I ran my finger trough every one of my pockets, but they were all empty, my backpack was gone as well.

  No supply, no knives, no gun. It wasn’t the most optimal scenario, but I had been through worse.

  I scanned the shore again. Nothing. No tracks, no signs of movement, no object to make a weapon, only sand. This meant my captors were cautious. For now, I could only fight barehanded if any situation arose.

  I looked at the ocean. The water was tempting, but I knew better than to give in. Drinking saltwater would only quench my thirst temporarily, and I didn’t want to die for short-term relief.

  I turned my head inland. My only chance to find water was probably in the jungle about three kilometers away from the coast, if my eyes didn’t lie.

  I moved forward under the burning sun, my wet tactical gear feeling heavier with each step. But I didn't discard it, I preferred suffering a bit now and have a better chance of surviving later. Who knew what I might encounter?

  The trek to the jungle felt endless. The sun bore down on me, burning the back of my neck.

  My throat was raw, each breath scratching it further. My instincts screamed at me to move faster to find something to drink, but my body refused to cooperate. My legs felt heavy, every muscle protesting.

  When I finally stepped inside the dense forest, the shade of the palm trees and tropical oaks protected me from the sun, but it was no sanctuary. The jungle was a furnace in its own right. Thick humidity enveloped me, clinging to my skin and mixing with my sweat .

  I slowed my steps, scanning my surroundings carefully. Jungle survival wasn’t new to me. I knew the slightest mistake could be fatal. But something was strange, there was no sign of life.

  No bird chirping. No annoying mosquito buzzing around my ears. Nothing.

  I crouched and inspected the ground for tracks, for any sign of animals passing through. Nothing. Not even a tiny trace of movement. I walked to the closest tree, trying my luck again, but didn’t find any insect here either.

  I focused hard, trying to hear the slightest sign of life. Where were the insects I used to curse in every jungle operation? Where were the ants and spiders crawling on my body? Where were the flies and mosquitos swarming me? What about the snakes and wild animals ready to ambush me at every turn?

  Suddenly, I realized something – I couldn’t feel anything watching me.

  In the wild, there was always the sensation of being observed. Predators lurking, studying your movements, gauging your weaknesses. A pack of wolves in the desert, a tiger in the jungle – you could feel their focus. That absence of feeling was far worse.

  It was like I wasn’t supposed to be here at all.

  My throat tightened with something sharper than thirst. Fear.

  This environment wasn’t natural. It looked too aseptic to be real. I didn’t know if my knowledge could even help me survive here.

  Then a memory hit me. When I woke up on the beach, there were no crabs on the sand, no seagulls in the sky, nor any fish in the ocean. No animal at all.

  This didn’t bode well.

  I could feel goosebumps crawl under my skin.

  Then I heard it, the booming voice that shattered any hope I had left.

  “To all survivors, welcome to our battle royal!” It began cheerfully. “Your mission is simple: survive. From the sixty elite warriors, only one will leave this island alive. For each person you kill, you'll earn a reward: any weapon and supply you desire. Good luck to all of you, give us a good show. May the best one win!”

  The tone was nauseatingly merry, like it belonged to some television announcer hyping up a game show. Except this wasn’t a game but real life.

  I clenched my fists, my guts twisting with revulsion. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen human lives treated with cold indifference. My years as a mercenary had hardened me to that fact. But this? This wasn’t war, or even business. This was morbid perversion.

  The psychopaths who brought us here wanted to watch us kill one another for their own sick pleasure. What kind of crazy bastards kidnapped us? And what kind of elites would I have to fight?