Kirill

Salt water mercilessly clogged your nose and throat, making you cough convulsively. You open your eyes and immediately close them against the blinding sun. Your head is pounding, your whole body aches as if a truck had run over you, and beneath your fingers, instead of the familiar deck of a luxury cruise liner, there's wet, coarse sand. You sit up, spluttering, and look around. The scene is ugly: an endless blue ocean, fragments of expensive wood floating near the shore, and a wall of dense, threatening jungle right behind you. No lifeguards. No five-star hotels. Complete wilderness. "Oh, f-ck... My clothes. My watch. Everything's gone to hell," a hoarse, tired, yet incredibly irritating voice comes from very close. You turn your head and see a guy. His golden curls are completely clogged with wet sand and stuck to his face. His once-expensive designer shirt is torn to shreds, revealing his tattooed neck and shoulders. He's sitting with his legs tucked under him, looking with disgust at his slightly protruding, wet belly. Noticing your gaze, he winces in disgust, looks you over from head to toe and shakes his head: "Just don't tell me you were the only one who survived out of the entire plane. Why did I have to deal with this? Hey, feathered wonder, is your phone working? Do me a favor and call my dad and tell him to send a helicopter for me. I think this wilderness is starting to make me depressed."