"Ejem... ¡Uf!"
After swallowing a large mouthful of seawater, Zhang Liu lay sprawled on the sand, coughing violently. The spasms took centuries to subside.
He panted heavily for a while, gathering enough strength to prop himself up on his elbows and slowly sit up.
Where the hell am I?
He racked his brain, piecing together the confusing fragments of memory.
Yesterday afternoon, he boarded a plane for a school trip abroad with his classmates. It was his first time flying, and motion sickness hit him like a truck. Only the gentle attentions of a flight attendant in black stockings and his tutor, along with some pills, finally lulled him to sleep.
When he awoke, chaos reigned: flames, explosions, and icy salt water that engulfed him completely. He thrashed in the waves, swallowing mouthfuls of brine before passing out again.
Little by little, the fog in his mind cleared, leaving him dazed.
Shouldn't he have died in a plane crash? How could he be here, on this beach?
He turned and looked around with wide, bewildered eyes.
The golden sand stretched out before him, backed by a thick wall of jungle. Behind it, an endless expanse of blue ocean, dotted with the white stripes of circling seagulls. Waves rhythmically crashed against the nearby rocky outcrops; their gentle laps were the only sound to break the silence.
The beach was deserted, save for a soft, warm breeze caressing his soaked skin. Soaked to the bone, Zhang Liu suddenly shivered.
I understood: I had survived the accident and had somehow gotten there.
Which meant... this had to be a deserted island, right?
A whirlwind of thoughts swept through him.
But hey, a plane crash like that? There'd be a massive search. They'd find him soon, and he'd be back home.
Holding onto that shred of optimism, he stripped off his soaked clothes, leaving only his salt-caked boxers clinging awkwardly to his skin.
When life throws us a curveball, the human brain loves to cling to hope. That's precisely what Zhang Liu did.
Convinced that rescue was imminent, he sank to the sand and became absorbed, watching the hypnotic rise and fall of the waves.
His mind drifted to nonsense. What would he say in the post-rescue interviews? "I perfected my composure under pressure at a girls' school"? And what about the girls and teachers on the flight? Would they be okay? Would his family be scared watching the news? What if the rescuers couldn't find him? Hell, what if no one even knew the plane had crashed!
Videos of survivors came to mind: Shouldn't he light a fire? Explore the jungle? That guy—Bear Grylls or whoever—always said the first three days were crucial.
But as the questions piled up, his mood shifted from hopeful to hopeless.
The stinging sunburn on his skin, especially his back and face, forced him to put on half-dry clothes. Wet fabric was a nuisance, but sunburn was a nightmare.
Damn UV rays, he grumbled inwardly.
He crawled to a shady spot under some dense trees near a hill by the sea; the overlapping shadows offered little relief.
His sand-filled boxers chafed beneath his damp pants; each shift was a harsh reminder, but he barely registered it.
At that moment, fear of what would come next drowned out discomfort.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down.
Seconds later, he stood up, brushed the sand off his butt, and trudged toward the beach.
Step one: Channel those survival videos and write an SOS in the sand. That was his clearest thought in the fog.
The sun blazed mercilessly, scorching his back like a grill. But luck smiled on him: he spotted a worn, half-buried bamboo pole nearby, its exposed tip bleached white by the elements.
He yanked it off; it was thick and sturdy. Grabbing his prize, he ran back to where he had arrived.
Choosing a safe stretch above the tide line, he got to work. No half-hearted beach scribbling like on construction sites; this time, each stroke was driven by desperation.
He made deep, dark lines to make sure the waves wouldn't wash them away.
Just as he finished the last S and turned to escape the heat in search of shade, a tiny dark speck caught his eye on the horizon, floating lazily toward the shore.
That-?
He froze for a moment, then moved forward, squinting in the glare. From the vague shape, it looked like... a person, floating on the waves.
Survivors!
Euphoria swept over him. He jumped into the shallow water, half his body engulfed by the cool embrace of the sea.
Buoyancy kicked in immediately. A gentle kick and he began swimming forward dog with ease.
I should have gone swimming sooner, he thought distractedly as the cool water soothed his overheated skin as he surfed the waves.
Up close, he made out the details: one of his classmates from the trip. He didn't remember her name, only that she was half of the stunning twin sisters from another class. From a wealthy family, too; their villa was one of those only wealthy people could afford.
At that moment, she was floating face up, her ample 36D breasts serving as a makeshift life jacket. Her eyes were closed, her lips pale, but her cheeks flushed from the sun.
Please don't be dead.
He grabbed the back of her neck without a second thought and kicked her hard with his free arm, dragging her to the ground.
From the shore, the retreating waves seemed harmless. Up close? They were stealthy bastards, dragging him along on hidden currents. He was swept sideways more than once, struggling with only one hand.
Only then did he realize: what an idiot, attacking him like that.
And how had he been able to reach her so easily?
He looked at the girl, who was still holding him by the neck. Could he go back without her? Probably. But abandoning her now seemed wrong. He wasn't exactly an Olympic swimmer; if his strength failed, they'd both be easy prey.
Let her go. You don't even know her. Dead or alive, who cares?
The selfish impulse seized him by the claws and his fingers loosened on the fabric.
But then, a slight cough escaped his lips.
She's alive!
His grip tightened again. He turned his head sharply; her eyes flew open, staring into his. Her pale lips parted, as if she wanted to speak, but she made no sound. She had no breath left.
Yet those eyes shone with raw relief at the sight of their savior.
How could he abandon her now? Suppressing his fear, he bared his teeth and charged forward, his legs pumping like pistons against the resistance.
Finally, her feet touched solid sand. Leverage! He dragged her the last few meters to the beach.
He collapsed next to her, his chest heaving and breathing heavily as his calves cramped in protest.
Terror washed over him in waves. What if he had given up seconds earlier? If she hadn't woken up, he would have let her drown. Murderous.
Guilt ate away at his insides.
But she was unconscious again. He patted her cheeks gently, murmuring "Hello" over and over again. Nothing.
The JK school uniforms—crisp white blouses over pleated skirts in shades of brown or deeper, paired with knee-high socks—weren't entirely transparent when wet. But they clung just enough to reveal the lavender bra peeking out.
After a brief pause, Zhang Liu touched his fingers to her lips. No kidding: he was using basic first aid.
He opened her mouth wide and four fingers hooked her jaw.
The clean white teeth shone; a pink tongue was visible below.
Of course.
He tilted his head to the side, interlaced his fingers, and inhaled deeply to press.
Leaning forward, he placed his palms firmly on the curve of her chest; that "life-saving" buoyancy was now his focus for compressions.