No one moved toward the bodies at first.
People stood in small, uncertain groups, looking from the dead to one another. The night had taken five lives, and the realization that it could take more seemed to settle over the beach with the morning mist.
Then someone began to cry.
A young employee from Administration sank to his knees in the sand. “We were supposed to be home by now. My family thinks I'm still on that ship. What am I supposed to tell them?”
“You can't tell them anything,” another man snapped. His voice broke halfway through the sentence. “There's no signal. There's no rescue. We're all going to die here.”
“Stop saying that!”
“Then tell me why no one's come!”
The argument spread. Some people shouted at one another; others stood apart, too exhausted even to join in. A woman knelt beside one of the bodies, calling the dead man's name as if he might wake if she kept trying.
Elara watched the group unravel.
She had seen panic before—in boardrooms, during market crashes, when an entire room of executives waited for someone to admit that the numbers were worse than they had claimed. But she had always possessed tools for those moments: information, advisers, a communications team, the promise that a problem could be contained if everyone followed the plan.
Here, she had none of them.
She looked toward the sea once more.
Still nothing.
A man pushed through the crowd and stopped in front of her.
“Ms. Voss, you told us the helicopter would come last night.”
Elara recognized him now as someone from Operations, though she couldn't remember his name.
“You said the distress signal was sent. You said they knew where we were.”
“I said an emergency response would be initiated.”
“You said they'd come!”
His voice rose until people nearby turned to listen.
“Five people are dead. How many more do you need before you admit you don't know what you're doing?”
Elara took a step back. The accusation stung, not because it was entirely fair, but because she had no reliable answer to give him.
“Everyone, please—”
“Don't tell us to calm down!”
He walked away, still shouting. The others began talking over one another again.
Near the rocks, Chen Jian was crouched beside the bodies. His glasses were salt-stained, and one lens had cracked. Wang Lan stood behind him, holding his shoulder as he checked the dead one by one.
When he finally stood, he looked older than he had the previous evening.
“The older man from Finance was severely hypothermic,” he said to those gathered around him. “He became confused and started taking off his clothes. By the time we realized how serious it was, he was already in bad shape.”
He glanced toward the rocks where the young salesman had fallen.
“The second man appears to have died from a head injury. He may have fallen during the night.”
“And the woman?” someone asked.
“Cold, dehydration, and smoke exposure. I can't say which one finished it. The others may have suffered a combination of the same problems.”
Chen's eyes moved to the blackened remains of their fire.
“We can't keep burning wet wood and seaweed in the same way. The smoke is dangerous, especially when the wind drops. But without a fire, the cold will kill people, too.”
Someone muttered, “So we're doomed either way.”
“No,” Chen said, more sharply than he intended. “But we can't keep doing the same thing and expect a different result.”
The remark drew a few bitter looks. People wanted reassurance, not another list of things they couldn't do.
Elara understood that much.
She stepped onto a flat rock where the group could see her. Her legs felt weak, and her throat hurt from the smoke, but she forced herself to stand straight. The habit came back before she had time to think about it: shoulders squared, chin raised, voice steady.
“Listen to me.”
The shouting did not stop immediately. She waited until the nearest people turned toward her, then spoke louder.
“What happened last night was terrible. We have lost five colleagues. Nothing I say will change that.”
A woman began sobbing again. Elara let the silence hold for a moment before continuing.
“But we cannot let those deaths become the beginning of more.”
She looked around the group, meeting as many eyes as she could.
“When we return, Aetheris Group will take responsibility for the families of those who died. Each family will receive compensation of one million dollars. Their children's education, their parents' care, and their outstanding household expenses will be covered. The company will honor those obligations.”
A few people looked up.
“For everyone still here, there will be compensation of two hundred thousand dollars upon our safe return, as well as guaranteed employment. Anyone injured will have medical expenses covered. Anyone who needs help recovering from what we've experienced will receive it.”
The numbers changed the atmosphere, if only slightly.
People were still frightened. Some clearly didn't believe her. But the promises gave them something to hold on to besides the image of the bodies on the sand.
Elara knew what she was doing. Back in the city, she had learned how quickly fear spread when people believed there was no plan. A credible promise could buy time. Sometimes time was all a leader had.
“These commitments will be put in writing when we're home,” she said. “Until then, I need everyone to focus on staying alive. We will deal with the rest together.”
She didn't say that she had no idea when—or whether—they would get home.
A few people nodded. Others simply looked down.
It wasn't trust. Not yet.
But the crowd quieted, and Elara took the opportunity.
She had steadied them for the moment.
Now she needed a way to keep them alive until the next one