Lara and Amelia stepped out of the bunkhouse just as the last traces of sunlight slipped beneath the horizon.
Twilight should have claimed the island by now.
On any other night, Isla would have sunk into a deep, breathing silence—darkness stretching across the land, broken only by the shrill chorus of cicadas and the restless stirrings of unseen nocturnal creatures in the forest.
But tonight was different.
The island blazed.
Harsh white floodlights cut through the dusk, turning night into something artificial, almost sterile. The excavation sites in the northern and western sectors pulsed with activity—machines groaning, voices echoing, shadows moving against the earth like ghosts refusing to rest.
Even from a distance, the energy felt… relentless.
Lara's gaze drifted instinctively toward the infirmary.
And then—she saw him.
A middle-aged man stepped out, his posture straight despite the dim fatigue in his movements.
Recognition came instantly.
Artemio Fuegerro,
