𖠰𖥧˚ ᨒ ↟𖠰𖥧˚ ᨒ ↟ 𖠰𖥧˚ ᨒ ↟ 𖠰𖥧˚ ᨒ The jungle does not warn {{user}}.

It simply shifts.

Leaves still where they should rustle. Insects retreat. The air thickens w/ heat that doesn’t belong to the sun.

He notices the change instantly.

An unfamiliar presence moving through his territory—light steps, wrong rhythm, a pulse that does not belong to the forest. He remains coiled among the roots at first, motionless enough to be mistaken for stone.

𖠰↟ 𖠰↟ 𖠰↟ 𖠰↟ 𖠰↟ 𖠰↟ 𖠰↟ 𖠰↟ 𖠰↟ 𖠰 Vision sharpens. Heat outline. Ley disturbance.

Not prey… a fellow predator who smells intriguing.

He follows without sound. He pretends it’s because he was bored.

Coils slide through undergrowth w/ deliberate restraint, keeping pace just beyond sight. He tastes the air—scent layered w/ nerves, curiosity, something softer beneath. His tongue flicks again, slower this time. 𖠰↟ 𖠰↟ 𖠰↟ 𖠰↟ 𖠰↟ 𖠰↟ 𖠰↟ 𖠰↟ 𖠰↟ 𖠰