Jake Moore leaned back in the deck chair, a half-melted drink sweating on the small table beside him. The salty breeze rustled the palms while the sun painted lazy strokes of gold across the turquoise water. The island was picturesque—postcard perfect. And, for once, things seemed simple. No meetings. No deadlines. No city noise. Just waves and wind.

  He still couldn’t believe he’d won the sweepstakes. A free seven-day stay at “Pelagos Prime,” a small, privately owned tropical island resort. The notice had come in a sleek black envelope with embossed lettering, and though he’d almost tossed it thinking it was junk, something had made him open it. He was skeptical, sure, but when he called the number and they confirmed everything—flight, accommodations, all-inclusive—it felt like the first good break he’d had in years.

  And the first day had been everything they promised.

  He’d arrived with six other “lucky winners,” flown in by a private helicopter that buzzed away over the horizon like a mosquito. There was a tour, a tropical cocktail, hammocks, music, a seafood dinner on the beach, and each guest was given their own small villa. They were encouraged to relax and enjoy the solitude. No need for schedules.

  But on the morning of day two, everything changed.

  Jake rolled out of bed, scratching at his jawline. The sunlight poured in through the gauzy curtains. He stretched, yawned, and rubbed the back of his neck. Something felt...off. There was a strange stillness in the air. He waited, listening. No chatter. No breakfast sizzling from the nearby kitchen huts. No golf cart engines whirring up the gravel paths.

  Odd.

  Still in his sleep shorts, Jake stepped outside. His flip-flops slapped the stone steps as he made his way to the main walkway. No one. Not at the beach bar, not by the pool, not even the staff. Even the music system that had been playing island tunes was silent.

  “Hello?” he called out.

  No answer.

  The empty chairs. The untouched towels. It was like the world had hit pause. A deep, unsettling quiet hummed in his ears.

  He jogged toward the staff lodge, knocking hard on the doors. Still nothing. He turned toward the helipad. The helicopter was gone, of course, but the fuel drums were still there, sealed. The hangar-like structure for deliveries stood open, but inside—only empty crates, boxes of food, nothing telling.

  He grabbed his phone and checked for a signal.

  Nothing.

  He tried connecting to the resort’s Wi-Fi.

  No networks found.

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  Now his pulse began to quicken. Maybe it was a prank? A surprise? Some kind of blackout?

  He headed to the nearest vehicle, a resort-branded Jeep still parked where he last saw it. He yanked the door open and saw the keys in the ignition. He turned it. It clicked once, tried again, and sputtered out. The tank was bone dry.

  He checked another car. Same thing.

  “Okay... What the hell?”

  He opened trunks. No luggage. No personal items. No notes. Just eerily pristine vehicles parked like props on a movie set.

  Jake walked the entire resort over the next few hours, trying each villa. All empty. Some still had food on the tables, half-drunk glasses of wine. Nothing packed. Everything just as the guests had left them. As if they were raptured away mid-meal.

  That night, Jake sat on a deck chair overlooking the dark ocean, chewing on cold fruit and a sandwich from one of the kitchen pantries. He looked up at the sky and muttered, “This better not be one of those immersive LARP events.”

  But it wasn’t.

  No one came. No messages. No planes. No signals.

  Jake accepted it—he was alone.

  What disturbed him most was how staged it all felt. No chaos. No panic. Everything so neatly abandoned. It was like someone had pressed ‘delete’ on the people.

  So he got to work.

  He started with food. He knew refrigeration would fail soon, so he prioritized the fresh stuff—meats, dairy, fruits—loading what he could into a cooler box with ice. He figured power would last a week at most, maybe less.

  He wasn’t clueless. Jake had dabbled in everything from model building to small engine repair. He’d always loved survival games, and during the pandemic, he’d gone down a rabbit hole of prepping and sustainability. At the time, it was just a hobby. Now, it might save his life.

  He used the last drops of fuel from one Jeep to rig up a gravity-fed siphon, getting every usable ounce from the other vehicles. Then he hiked up the nearby hill, scouting from above. That’s when he saw it—a house a bit away from the resort, likely for a staff manager or private guest. It had solar panels on the roof and a modest garden fenced in behind.

  Promising.

  Before heading there, he stopped at the small bookshop by the dock—the kind of place that sold paperbacks and souvenirs. He wasn’t expecting much, but to his surprise, he found a few gems: guides on food preservation, a survival manual, a book on generator maintenance, and even a technical binder labeled “Independent Power Systems for Remote Living.”

  He grinned. “Jackpot.”

  He scooped them into his arms, chuckling under his breath. “Weird set of souvenirs…”

  A moment passed.

  His smile faded slightly.

  He glanced around the store again. No sign of staff. No other customers.

  It was only late afternoon, but the shadows in the corners suddenly seemed heavier. He looked down at the books again. It was too perfect. Too curated. What kind of tourist shop stocked off-grid survival manuals?

  He shook off the chill running down his spine and left, the duffel bag of books thudding against his side. Just a strange coincidence, he told himself. Maybe the owner was a prepper type. Or maybe someone had donated them.

  ---

  By the time the sun dipped into the sea, Jake stood outside the solar house. The door was unlocked. Inside was sparse, clean. Whoever lived here had left quickly or with instructions not to disturb anything. There were sealed food packets, cleaning supplies, and—yes!—a compact diesel generator in a rear shed.

  As he powered it on to test it, a low hum vibrated through the walls. Light flickered to life.

  He’d made it. A small base of operations.

  Jake looked out the window toward the empty island, lit only by moonlight and the occasional flicker of a forgotten lamp post.

  He didn’t know who left him here. Or why. But he intended to find out.

  And until then, he would survive. Build. Prepare.

  Because something told him this island wasn’t just a vacation gone wrong. It was something bigger.

  Much bigger.

  Elsewhere, unseen by Jake — Hidden Camera Control Hub, Location Undisclosed

  “Zoom in on Villa 6,” said a voice in the dimly lit room, flicking a switch. A bank of screens glowed to life.

  On the center screen, Jake Moore’s face appeared in crisp clarity, staring out at the empty resort.

  “Subject is ahead of schedule,” the voice noted with a slight chuckle. “Found the book stash already. Made a comment about how odd it is. Smart guy.”

  A second person leaned closer. “He’ll be the one to watch. The others are still wandering around like it’s a glitchy Airbnb check-in.”

  On another monitor, other islands appeared—one man fishing, another trying to start a fire with beach driftwood. All were unaware they were being streamed live to a private audience.

  “Viewer count just passed 8,000,” someone called from behind the console.

  “Boost camera five audio,” the supervisor said. “Let’s hear what he does next.”

  The room buzzed with hushed voices, quiet excitement, and the soft hum of equipment. Somewhere far from the island, an entire infrastructure was in motion, recording, cataloging, and broadcasting Jake’s every move.

  He didn’t know it yet—but his isolation was no accident.

  It was an experiment.

  And it had just begun.