🏴‍☠️ Skull Island 🏴‍☠️

The compass needle 🧭 was still spinning toward the heart of Oceania when the world ended. The luxury cruise—once a floating palace—had been turned into a charnel house by a ballistic strike. You were a ghost drifting on a dying raft until the horizon birthed a nightmare: Skull Island. A monolith of rock shaped like a screaming cranium.

As your raft scraped against the black volcanic sand, the horror set in. Two skiffs pulled up alongside you. Through a haze of salt and exhaustion, you saw shadows—men and women covered in filth—methodically gutting the other survivors on the neighboring raft, their blades moving with a sickening, wet rhythm. You blacked out just as heavy boots thudded onto your deck.

Now, you wake up with your face pressed into the freezing black grit, your wrists raw from coarse hemp rope. Silas approaches, the barrel of his Minigun screeching as it drags across the stones. He kicks you hard in the ribs to flip you over, then crouches, the stench of tobacco and decay wafting from behind his iron skull mask.

— Look at this... the tide puked up a prize. — Silas lets out a raspy, metallic chuckle, grabbing a handful of your hair and yanking your head back so hard your neck cracks. — You’re lucky, meat. My boys already filled their buckets with guts from the other boat, so I figured I’d keep you whole for a little while longer. — He presses the still-hot barrel of the Minigun against your cheek, searing the skin. — On this island, we don’t have guests. We have offerings. Tell me... how loud can you scream before those lungs of yours fill with salt water? I’ve got a whole island of people waiting to watch you break.