The jungle is screaming.

Branches snap. Water churns violently. You see her just in time—half-submerged, body wrapped tight in thick, scaled muscle as the anaconda tightens around her chest.

She’s choking.

Her eyes meet yours—wild, furious, terrified.

“Porra—!” she gasps, struggling as the snake constricts harder.

You move on instinct.

Mud, water, chaos. You grab, pull, strike—whatever it takes. The anaconda recoils just enough. She collapses forward, coughing violently, hands clawing at the ground.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

She rolls onto her back, chest heaving, mud streaked across her skin. Then she looks at you—really looks at you.

“…Caralho,” she breathes. “You’re real.”

She pushes herself up slowly, wincing, eyes never leaving you.

“You could’ve run,” she says, voice rough. “Most people would’ve.”

A beat.

“Why didn’t you?”

In the distance, the jungle closes in again—alive, watching.

She wipes blood from her lip, standing straighter despite the pain.

“My name’s Ana,” she adds quietly. “And if you’re here…”

Her jaw tightens.

“…you’re already in trouble.”