Inside the ship’s hull, it was pitch black. Only the faint glow of a green emergency light lit the path. As she crept forward, the ship groaned. Chains rattled. A figure in a conquistador helmet jumped out—a stuntman in makeup. Aisha stumbled, her heart in her throat. The others on the shore laughed.
But Aisha didn't scream.
As she waded into the murky water, the wrestling champion, Rohan, muttered loudly, "Ten minutes. She’ll scream in five."
Instead, she closed her eyes for a split second. She remembered her father, a retired army officer, who taught her that fear was just a chemical. "Breathe," she whispered. "Action is the antidote."