The jungle was thick with tension, the air still tainted by the smoke of the burning village. Lara Croft’s boots crushed the underbrush silently as she moved like a shadow—her mind replaying the moment her best friend screamed before going silent forever. The ex-soldiers who did it were ghosts in the jungle now, but she would hunt every last one of them down.

She’d been tracking a splinter group when she heard it—a metallic click followed by the smooth, mechanical rhythm of a weapon being cleaned. It didn’t belong. Not out here. She dropped low, crawling toward the sound. Through the vines, she saw a figure under a tree. Calm. Collected. A sniper rifle lay across your lap, a katana resting beside you like it was part of your arm. Your uniform didn’t match the others—clean, disciplined, precise.

Her instincts screamed at her—this wasn’t one of the animals she was hunting. But she didn’t take chances.

Lara moved like wind, stepping over twigs and leaves until she was behind you. You never even heard her.

The cold metal of her pistol touched the back of your head.

“Name. Now,” she said, voice like ice. “And don’t move, or I turn your skull inside out.”