Theophilus was still strapped in. Still bleeding. Still half-aware.
But now, the ocean was rising.
Water crawled like a living thing through the aisles, wrapping around his boots, soaking the frayed edges of his pants. Cold. Sharp. Not just temperature — it bit.
The sea crept higher.
And he still couldn't move.
His leg was trapped beneath the collapsed front seat — a metal tomb that refused to give. His knee pressed awkwardly against the frame, bent and swelling, groaning with pain every time the fuselage shifted.
He turned his head slowly, shakily.
Three seats ahead — something. A long, rusted pole from a collapsed luggage rack. Its jagged end could help pry the metal pinning his leg, if only he could reach it.
But it might as well have been on another planet.
His eyes flickered to the cockpit.
The pilot's door had snapped open during the crash. It now hung limply like a broken jaw, and through it, he saw the figures of the pilots — slumped, unmoving. Heads bent unnaturally over their harnesses. Their uniforms were dark with blood, floating in the cold air like ribbons. One of them twitched briefly — but it was only the tide lifting his arm like a puppet.
Theophilus swallowed. The salt on his tongue was thicker now, like it was already settling in his lungs.
He clenched his jaw and pulled again.
Nothing.
He heard a splash — rapid movements. Gasping breaths.
Someone had survived.
A young man — maybe late twenties — was clawing his way toward the emergency exit where most of the sea was pouring in. Others were watching from atop the seats now, trembling, wet, panicked.
Theophilus blinked.
The man screamed.
It was too late.
Something below the water jerked his body downward. First his leg, then the rest — dragged like a ragdoll. He clawed at the seat handles, but blood clouded the rising waters around him. His scream came late — a garbled, bubbling thing — before he vanished beneath the surface. His scream cut short.
People began to cry.
One woman collapsed to her knees on top of a seat, hands over her mouth. Another tried to pull someone else from the aisle only to be pushed down by the shifting tide.
Then—
A sound.
Low. Groaning. Splitting.
The entire back of the plane lurched — then cracked.
Theophilus watched as the rear half of the aircraft twisted inward like crumpled paper. Metal snapped. Screws popped. Screams filled the space as the back half sheared away.
Dozens — maybe more — were still alive in that section.
Not anymore.
The ocean swallowed them. No hesitation. Just weight, gravity, and sea. The current was stronger than any arm or prayer, dragging them down like pebbles into an endless pit.
And now, with no balance or structure, the front of the plane tilted — forward.
Theophilus felt it instantly.
The new angle jerked the seat tighter against his leg, pulling it down with the plane's tilt.
Pain exploded in his knee — a pop, like a misfired gunshot.
He screamed — sharp, hoarse, raw.
The sea rose again.
Now waist-level.
People began falling from the seats they'd climbed. Their bodies slipped into the water, some screaming, others silent. One man slammed against the overhead luggage compartment before falling beneath the rising flood.
There were no more safety warnings. No inflatable vests.
Only airbags. And most of them had been shredded.
And in this sea — this godless abyss where the surface meant nothing and the depth whispered death — they were no salvation.
Theophilus's body trembled, soaked in salt, blood, sweat, and panic. His leg screamed. His bent arm was already useless, but now his kneecap had shifted — not enough to cripple him forever, but enough to drive agony up his spine with every movement.
Then, a hand — wet and frenzied — grabbed his shoulder.
A woman. Drenched. Mad with terror.
She was screaming at him — no words, just sound. Her hands clawed at his straps, his chest, his arm — trying to pull herself upward, or pull him down.
His leg twisted again.
A howl tore from his throat. High, broken, childlike.
The woman was pulled away by the current before he could even process what she'd wanted. Her hands flailed at the open air. Then the sea took her too — just like the others.
More screams.
The fuselage groaned again. Deeper now. The sound of a ship surrendering.
And Theophilus — still stuck, half-submerged — couldn't move. Could barely breathe.
His teeth chattered, even as sweat poured from his brow.
The cold didn't matter.
Only pain.
And above all else — the sound of the ocean climbing ever higher.
His seat groaned.
The floor beneath his boots creaked.
The rest of the plane — what remained — was sinking faster now.
Tilting downward like a coffin inching into a watery grave.
And Theophilus…
---
Theophilus struggles to keep a straight face as the pain and horror claw at every corner of his mind. His breath is shaky, his ribs feel cracked, and his twisted knee pulses with agony. Below him, the abyss of the ocean yawns wider, ready to consume what little hope remains.
His eyes dart to the rusted metal pole, just a few meters away. It lies wedged between the seats—salvation, but unreachable. He grits his teeth and tries again to dislodge his leg, but it's no use. His fingers tremble as he slams his hand uselessly against the seat, frustration burning hotter than the pain.
Suddenly, a shadow slices through the water—a person. A white man, slim but strong, paddles toward him with nothing but sheer will in his eyes. He wastes no time, his fingers digging under Theophilus's armpits as he tries to pull him free. But the moment Theophilus shifts, his scream cuts through the bubbling silence of the deep. The pain rockets through his spine, raw and unbearable.
The man pauses, his lips forming a question that can't be heard in the water. Theophilus, panting, points weakly at the rusted pole. The stranger nods and kicks off toward it.
He grabs the pole and swims back, his strokes filled with urgency. He positions it carefully under the collapsed seat and pushes upward with all his strength. The seat groans under the strain but barely budges. There's not enough space—not yet. They both know time is running thin.
Then, from somewhere above, a metallic groan echoes through the deep—the unmistakable death rattle of a sinking aircraft. The currents stir. The pressure changes. The plane starts pulling itself down like a dying beast refusing to drown alone.
The white man is caught in the suction. His body jerks upward, dragged by the undercurrents. But he doesn't let go. Even with the pole still in hand, he fights back, thrashing like a man possessed.
He's dragged upwards and his struggle seems futile until he breaks free , his face contorted as he winced at the current rushing and scraping past his eyeballs.
Theophilus, though still trapped, watches in wide-eyed disbelief as the man fights gravity itself. Then—he returns. His arms kick powerfully against the current as he closes the distance, breath burning, pole still clenched in hand like a sword.
He shoves it beneath the seat again—this time with force born of desperation. The seat lifts, just a little. Just enough.
Theophilus doesn't hesitate. With a scream muffled by water, he wrenches his leg free. Flesh tears. Blood clouds the water. He writhes, pain nearly making him blackout again, but his leg is free. He's free.
Except he isn't. His lungs give. The air is gone. Darkness creeps at the corners of his vision, and he starts to sink again, his limbs heavy, slack.
Then—hands. Around his waist. Pulling.
The stranger is back. The pole is gone, discarded. There's only one thing left on his mind now: getting Theophilus to the surface.
He swims, hard, every kick against the current a battle. Seven meters. Maybe more. The sea presses down like a wall. Theophilus's eyes are closed, his body limp. Time warps under pressure. The surface looks farther than it should.
But the man doesn't stop.
His legs burn. His lungs scream. Still, he kicks.
Until—finally—he breaks through.
The surface bursts open. Air rushes in. Theophilus gasps violently, coughing out what little seawater he'd swallowed. His head thrashes as he tries to orient himself. The white man holds him steady, equally breathless.
Theophilus's vision clears slowly. No survivors. No cries. Just waves.
The man spins in place, searching. The plane must've dragged them far during the descent. There's no one else around—only open water and sky.
"You alright?" the man asks, voice hoarse.
Theophilus coughs hard, then nods, still gasping. "Yeah… yeah…"
They both hang in silence for a moment, letting the rhythm of survival sink in.
Then Theophilus blinks and looks past the man's shoulder.
There, in the distance—small, barely visible—land.
"Look," he breathes.
The man turns. His eyes narrow. The silhouette of a coastline waits beyond the surf, still far but real.
Their eyes meet.
There's no celebration. Just a shared understanding.
They're not out of this yet.
But they're alive.