Stuck in an Island with Twelve Beautiful Women

He didn't know what.

With a shake of his head, he moved to the bathroom, turning on the tap to splash cold water on his face. The reflection staring back at him in the mirror was the same as always—dark eyes, slightly tousled hair, a hint of exhaustion etched into his features.

"You're overthinking things," he muttered to himself.

But as he turned away, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

A message.

**Did you find what you were looking for?**

His stomach tightened.

No name. No number.

He clenched his jaw, typing a single response.

**Who is this?**

The reply came almost instantly.

**It doesn't matter. What matters is whether you're ready.**

Jude exhaled sharply. He was done with cryptic messages and half-truths. He needed something real.

He ignored the text, tossing his phone onto the couch as he moved toward the kitchen. Maybe food would help clear his mind. He rummaged through the cabinets, settling on a simple meal—something warm, something grounding. The rhythmic motion of chopping, stirring, and plating felt oddly soothing. By the time he sat down at the small dining table, he almost felt normal again.

Almost.

His phone buzzed again.

He considered ignoring it but found himself reaching for it anyway.

**Don't pretend you don't feel it.**

His grip tightened around the device.

Enough.

He turned it off, shoving it aside.

The night stretched on, quiet and still. He washed his dishes, checked the locks on his doors, and finally settled onto the couch, flipping through channels mindlessly. The sounds of late-night television filled the space, but his thoughts drifted elsewhere.

Something was coming. He could feel it.

And he wasn't sure if he was ready.

Jude sat on the couch, staring at the darkened television screen. The reflection of the dim room flickered against it, casting ghostly shapes that twisted in his vision. He had turned it off minutes ago, but his thoughts refused to quiet. The messages on his phone gnawed at him, the words carving themselves into his mind.

He exhaled, rubbing his temples. His body was tired, but his mind refused to settle. He had always trusted his instincts, and right now, they were screaming at him. Something was coming.

Pushing himself up, he walked toward the window, pulling back the curtain just enough to peer outside. The street below was quiet. A few streetlights buzzed faintly, their glow pooling against the pavement. A lone car passed, its headlights sweeping over the sidewalk before disappearing around a corner. Nothing unusual.

But the feeling didn't go away.

Jude turned back, pacing the room. He needed to focus. Find something tangible to ground himself. His gaze landed on a small wooden box on the shelf near his bed. It had been there for as long as he could remember, one of the few things he had always kept close.

He walked over and picked it up, running his fingers over the smooth surface before lifting the lid. Inside, a collection of small trinkets lay nestled in the velvet lining. A silver coin, worn around the edges. A photograph, its corners slightly curled. A key that he had never found the lock for.

He picked up the coin, rolling it between his fingers. It had been given to him years ago, though he barely remembered by whom. Something about luck, they had said. He wasn't sure he believed in luck.

Setting the coin aside, he reached for the photograph. It was old, the colors faded but the image still clear. A boy, standing near a lake, his expression half-hidden by the angle of the shot. The details tugged at something in Jude's memory, but he couldn't quite grasp it.

A knock at the door made him freeze.

His eyes flicked toward the clock. It was late. Too late for visitors.

He set the box down carefully and moved toward the door, pausing just before reaching it.

Another knock.

Not urgent. Just… steady.

He took a breath, unlocking the door and pulling it open slightly. The hallway outside was dim, the overhead light casting a pale glow. A man stood there, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp.

Jude's grip tightened on the doorknob.

"Jude Carter?"

His mouth felt dry. "Who's asking?"

The man smiled faintly. "You don't know me, but I believe we need to talk."

Jude didn't move. "It's late."

"I know," the man said. "But this couldn't wait."

Jude studied him. He wasn't particularly tall, nor imposing, but there was something about the way he stood—composed, patient. Like he had all the time in the world.

"I'm not interested," Jude said, beginning to close the door.

The man placed a hand on the frame. Not forceful. Just enough to stop it. "I think you will be."

Jude didn't like that. Every instinct in him told him to shut the door, lock it, and walk away. But another part of him—one that had been gnawing at him ever since the strange messages—told him that this was exactly what he had been waiting for.

With a slow breath, he stepped back, allowing the door to open just enough for the man to enter.

The man didn't hesitate. He stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over the apartment before settling on Jude.

"You've been feeling it, haven't you?"

Jude didn't respond.

"The shift," the man continued. "The unease. Like something is out of place."

Jude crossed his arms. "Who are you?"

The man tilted his head slightly, as if considering his answer. "Someone who has been where you are."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"No," the man agreed. "But you already know the answer, don't you?"

Jude clenched his jaw. He hated riddles. Hated being toyed with.

"Why are you here?"

The man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. He handed it to Jude.

Jude hesitated before taking it, unfolding it carefully.

A single address was written on it.

He frowned. "What is this?"

"A place you need to be," the man said. "Tomorrow night."