The Overseer, remarkably resilient for a man whose primary power source had just undergone a rather explosive disassembly, clawed his way from the temple's wreckage, his face a mask of incandescent rage. His hatred for Michael, previously a simmering resentment, now boiled over into a fanatical obsession. He vowed a retribution so agonizing it would make their previous mud-based diet seem like a gourmet experience, unleashing the remaining cultists in a frenzied, almost comical, pursuit. Michael's flight became a brutal, relentless exercise in evasion, every shadow potentially concealing a bloodthirsty zealot, every rustle of leaves sounding suspiciously like someone sharpening a sacrificial dagger. He was forced to rely on his rapidly evolving cunning and the island's decidedly unhelpful resources. He set increasingly elaborate and often darkly humorous traps – tripwires connected to particularly aggressive hornets' nests, strategically placed piles of slippery guano, and on one memorable occasion, a cleverly disguised pit filled with surprisingly vocal crabs.
He killed when necessary, each act a cold, pragmatic calculation devoid of any lingering sentimentality. The privileged boy who had once recoiled at the sight of a paper cut was long gone, replaced by a hardened survivor whose moral compass had been thoroughly demagnetized by the island's harsh realities. He'd often catch his reflection in a murky stream, barely recognizing the gaunt, scarred face that stared back, a grim reminder of his transformation. "He wanted to break me," he'd murmur to a particularly inquisitive monkey. "Instead, he just… upgraded me. To something significantly less pleasant." His dark humor, once a shield against despair, was now becoming a weapon in its own right, a sardonic commentary on the absurdity of his existence.