3, 2, 1... Mark Westwood slowly opened his eyes, his consciousness surfacing through the darkness like a buoyant ice floe. The biting cold pierced through his arctic gear, its invisible tendrils wrapping around him, seeping into his very marrow. The surrounding blackness was absolute, broken only by the faint red glow of the emergency lights casting eerie shadows within the cramped confines of the wreckage.

He tried to move his limbs, but found himself tightly harnessed to the seat, immobilized. The sensation of being trapped sent a wave of inexplicable panic through him, as if he were ensnared by some indescribable force.

"Damn it, where am I?" Mark muttered, straining to recall the last moments before his consciousness had been swallowed by darkness. Fragmented memories flashed through his mind: the shrill wail of alarms, the violent turbulence, the terrified screams of his colleagues... and that... that unspeakable shadow. Each time he attempted to focus on the details of that shadow, a wave of vertigo and nausea would wash over him, as if something was actively preventing him from uncovering the truth.

As his senses gradually sharpened, Mark realized where he was—their research plane. As an arctic archaeologist, he had led a team to investigate a newly discovered ancient site within the Arctic Circle. However, as they were about to reach their destination, a sudden blizzard had struck their aircraft. But was it just an ordinary blizzard? A sliver of doubt crept into Mark's heart.

With difficulty, he unbuckled the safety harness and struggled to his feet. Each movement was accompanied by a sharp, bone-chilling pain, as if his entire skeleton had been shattered by the crash. By the dim light, he surveyed the surroundings, a wave of dread rising within him—the fuselage was split in two, the rear section missing without a trace. And within the range of his vision, there was no sign of any other survivors.

"Jack? Sarah? Is anyone there?" Mark called out, his voice echoing hauntingly in the silent cabin. There was no response, only the howling Arctic wind whistling through the breaches in the wreckage, whispering like ancient beings. These whispers seemed to narrate a tale that Mark could not comprehend, raising goosebumps on his skin.

Forcing himself to remain calm, Mark began to search through the wreckage for any usable equipment. He found a partially damaged emergency kit containing some canned food, a bottle of water, a small knife, and a flare. Among the debris of the cockpit, he also found a surviving satellite phone, its battery long dead. These artifacts of modern civilization now seemed so fragile and powerless, as if mocking the insignificance of human endeavors.

3, 2, 1... Mark Westwood slowly opened his eyes, his consciousness surfacing through the darkness like a buoyant ice floe. The biting cold pierced through his arctic gear, its invisible tendrils wrapping around him, seeping into his very marrow. The surrounding blackness was absolute, broken only by the faint red glow of the emergency lights casting eerie shadows within the cramped confines of the wreckage.

He tried to move his limbs, but found himself tightly harnessed to the seat, immobilized. The sensation of being trapped sent a wave of inexplicable panic through him, as if he were ensnared by some indescribable force.

"Damn it, where am I?" Mark muttered, straining to recall the last moments before his consciousness had been swallowed by darkness. Fragmented memories flashed through his mind: the shrill wail of alarms, the violent turbulence, the terrified screams of his colleagues... and that... that unspeakable shadow. Each time he attempted to focus on the details of that shadow, a wave of vertigo and nausea would wash over him, as if something was actively preventing him from uncovering the truth.

As his senses gradually sharpened, Mark realized where he was—their research plane. As an arctic archaeologist, he had led a team to investigate a newly discovered ancient site within the Arctic Circle. However, as they were about to reach their destination, a sudden blizzard had struck their aircraft. But was it just an ordinary blizzard? A sliver of doubt crept into Mark's heart.

With difficulty, he unbuckled the safety harness and struggled to his feet. Each movement was accompanied by a sharp, bone-chilling pain, as if his entire skeleton had been shattered by the crash. By the dim light, he surveyed the surroundings, a wave of dread rising within him—the fuselage was split in two, the rear section missing without a trace. And within the range of his vision, there was no sign of any other survivors.

"Jack? Sarah? Is anyone there?" Mark called out, his voice echoing hauntingly in the silent cabin. There was no response, only the howling Arctic wind whistling through the breaches in the wreckage, whispering like ancient beings. These whispers seemed to narrate a tale that Mark could not comprehend, raising goosebumps on his skin.

Forcing himself to remain calm, Mark began to search through the wreckage for any usable equipment. He found a partially damaged emergency kit containing some canned food, a bottle of water, a small knife, and a flare. Among the debris of the cockpit, he also found a surviving satellite phone, its battery long dead. These artifacts of modern civilization now seemed so fragile and powerless, as if mocking the insignificance of human endeavors.