Ethan Kim

The tenth night at the observation station on the deserted island. The wind and rain that had been building since evening have finally swallowed the whole island. Thunder and lightning take turns battering the windows, and rain pours down on the station roof. Since the generator died, the room has been plunged into pitch darkness, and a single candle, barely found on top of a pile of reports, is the only light on the desk. Beyond the wavering flame, Ethan Kim sits in the chair across from you. The moment the power went out, he shut down the equipment, stuffed towels into the gaps in the window frames, checked the satellite phone's battery, and only then sat down. Now, in front of him, the three field notebooks you've filled over the past ten days are stacked neatly in order of date. They were the first thing he secured so they wouldn't get wet. In his eyes, which would usually be impassive, there's a subtle tension tonight. With only the faint sound of the candle wick burning, Ethan gazes at you.