The final day of their captivity dawned not with sunlight, but with a shroud of thick, white fog. It had rolled in from the sea during the darkest hours of the night, a silent, creeping entity that swallowed the world whole. The fog was a tangible presence, a damp, suffocating wall that pressed against the cabin's windows, reducing visibility to less than fifteen feet. The world beyond their small wooden shelter had ceased to exist. They were adrift in a sea of nothingness, an isolated vessel suspended in a void.
Through the shifting wisps of mist, the distant lighthouse was a mere smudge, a ghostly silhouette. Its pulsing, rhythmic light, once a clear beacon, was now diffused into a sickly, jaundiced halo, like the light from a giant, cataract-ridden eye struggling to see.
The three survivors huddled inside, prisoners of the fog as much as the island. Time itself seemed to have turned thick and viscous, each second stretching into an eternity of tense silence, punctuated only by the muffled, relentless humming from the locked bedroom. The air was heavy with unspoken fear and the stale scent of sleeplessness. They didn't talk. There was nothing left to say. They were simply waiting—for the boat, or for the end.
Sometime in the afternoon, Frank found himself standing by the living room window, peering through a small gap in the curtains he'd drawn. He was trying to gauge if the fog was thinning, searching for any sign that their isolation might soon be over. It was then that his heart seized in his chest, a violent, painful clench that stole his breath.
He saw a figure.
It was standing silently on the lawn just at the edge of the dense fog, a blurred shape in the whiteout. The figure wore the exact same dark green rain jacket and faded blue jeans he had on. It had the same slightly overweight build, the same posture, even the same habit of hunching its shoulders slightly.
He couldn't see the face, it was obscured by the swirling mist, but Frank knew, with a terrifying, bone-deep certainty, that he was looking at himself.
The fifth rule flashed in his mind, not the part about still water, but the terrifying implication behind it: You don't know if the one... staring back is still you. The island had learned. After its auditory tricks had failed, it was now escalating its assault, moving from imitating their voices to hijacking their very images. It was no longer just trying to lure them out; it was trying to erode their sense of self, to make them question their own reality.
He didn't make a sound. He didn't gasp or call out to the others. With a trembling hand, he slowly, silently, drew the curtain fully closed, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The image was burned onto the inside of his eyelids—his own doppelgänger, waiting patiently for him in the mist.
As dusk began to settle, the fog, instead of dissipating, seemed to grow even denser. The world outside dissolved into a murky gray, and then, swiftly, into an impenetrable black.
It was in that moment, as the last vestiges of daylight were devoured by the darkness, that a sound echoed through the cabin, sharp and clear.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The three of them shot up from their chairs as if electrocuted. They scrambled together into a tight, trembling cluster in the center of the room, their eyes locked on the thin wooden door, their breathing stopped dead.
"Frank? Mark? Anna? Are you guys in there? Please, open the door!"
The voice from the other side was familiar. Agonizingly familiar. It was Chloe's.
But it wasn't the hollow, humming drone they had grown used to. This was her real voice, filled with the normal cadence and desperate, lucid emotion they hadn't heard in two days.
"Please, open up! I'm okay! I remember everything now! That horrible song... its power is gone! I feel like I've been asleep for days. Let me in! It's so cold and dark out here!"
Mark's face, which had been a mask of numb despair, instantly crumpled. A raw, explosive hope lit up his bloodshot eyes, and tears began to stream down his cheeks. "It's her! It's Chloe! She's back!" He took a staggering step towards the door, his hand outstretched, ready to throw the bolt.
"STAY WHERE YOU ARE!" Frank's voice was a low, guttural snarl, the sound of an animal defending its territory. He moved with a speed Mark wouldn't have thought possible, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and yanking him back with brutal force. Frank's eyes, when they met Mark's, were not filled with hope. They were as sharp and cold as chips of ice.
"You can't open that door," he hissed.
"Are you insane, Frank?! That's Chloe! She's better!" Mark struggled against his grip, his face a whirlwind of confusion and desperate hope.
Frank kept his iron grip, his gaze fixed on the door as if he could see through the wood to the lie waiting on the other side. "What time is it?" he demanded, his voice dangerously quiet.
Mark, momentarily stunned by the non-sequitur, glanced at his watch. "It's... it's just after seven. It's totally dark."
"After sunset," Frank stated, his voice devoid of any emotion. "What was the first rule, Mark?"
Forbidden to gaze upon the lighthouse after sunset. When it sees you, it's best you don't see it.
"What does that have to do with anything? We're not looking at the lighthouse!" Mark yelled, his frustration boiling over.
"I DON'T KNOW!" Frank finally roared, his composure cracking for a terrifying second. "But I know that after sunset, everything out there becomes a weapon against us! This island operates on two different systems—day and night! And we are in the night system now. We don't open the door. Not for anything. Not for anyone."
"But... but what if it's really her?" Mark's voice broke, the plea of a man on the verge of shattering completely. "Are we just going to leave her out there to die?"
"Then we wait until morning!" Frank's response was absolute, a judge's final verdict. "If it's really her, she'll understand. She'll survive until sunrise. And if it's a trick... then opening that door means we all die. Right here, right now. There are no other options."
The 'Chloe' outside must have heard the argument, because her pleas grew more frantic, more manipulative. "Frank! How can you be so cruel? Mark, please, help me! Anna! We're best friends! Are you really going to let me die out here?!"
Her voice shifted, a masterful performance of emotion. One moment it was soft and pleading, the next it was filled with bitter, wounded accusation, then it descended into heartbroken sobs. Every word was a tiny hammer, chipping away at the psychological defenses of the three people inside.
Mark collapsed to the floor, clutching his head in his hands, letting out a low, wounded moan like a dying animal. He was being torn apart from the inside. Anna stood frozen, her hand pressed to her lips, silent tears carving paths down her pale cheeks, her heart at war with her mind.
Only Frank remained steadfast. He had become a statue of pure, cold resolve. He turned his back on his friends and pressed it firmly against the door, using his own body as a final barricade. He could feel the slight vibration through the wood as the thing outside continued to plead and weep. He knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that this was the island's final, most cruel temptation. This was the checkmate move. And opening the door meant losing the game for good.