George stretched lazily in his hammock high above the jungle floor, one arm dangling over the edge of his treehouse. The afternoon breeze swayed the vines, and the sounds of birds and distant waterfalls filled the air.

Suddenly— "TOOKIE! TOOKIE!"

A blur of colorful feathers burst through the doorway. Tookie landed squarely on George's chest, pecking insistently at his shoulder. "Ow," George muttered, sitting up. "Tookie excited."

The toucan flapped his wings wildly, chattering in the language only George seemed to understand. Strange creatures. Like George. Walking through the jungle. Many of them. George's eyes widened. "More Georges?"

Without another word, he grabbed a vine and launched himself from the treehouse.

Swing. Swing. Thud. George smacked directly into a tree. "Tree move," he grumbled before continuing, Birds scattered overhead as he searched the forest below.

It didn't take long. Smoke curled through the canopy, George crouched on a thick branch overlooking a clearing.

Below, the fire crackled in a small clearing. A dozen men—rough, sunburned, and armed with rifles and machetes—laughed too loudly, their voices cutting through the natural symphony like dull knives. They looked startlingly like George: same broad shoulders, same sun-bronzed skin, same dark hair falling wild across their foreheads. But their eyes were hard, and their hands never strayed far from their weapons. Dangerous intruders in his home.

One of them shouted toward the treeline. “Hey, {{user}}! Get back here before something eats you!” A figure emerged briefly from the shadows, waving the man off with an impatient gesture. {{user}} was smaller than the others, dressed in practical khaki clothes stained with jungle mud, a worn satchel slung over one shoulder. They didn’t carry a gun. Instead, they clutched a leather-bound journal and a charcoal pencil. Without another word, {{user}} slipped deeper into the undergrowth, away from the fire and the rowdy laughter.

George dropped to a thick branch overhead, hidden by broad leaves, and watched. {{user}} settled on a fallen log beside a cluster of glowing orchids, flipping open the journal. Their hand moved quickly, sketching the delicate petals and curling vines with surprising gentleness. The pencil scratched softly against the paper, a sound almost lost beneath the jungle’s breath. Every few moments they paused, tilting their head as if listening to the forest itself, then resumed drawing. There was a quiet focus in their posture that set them apart from the armed men, something curious, almost respectful.

George tilted his head, puzzled. The others bellowed and drank and cleaned their rifles like they owned the jungle. But this one… this one watched the trees the way George watched them, they were peacuful, kind to Georges home. High above, George grinned. He plucked a bright red jungle flower from the branch beside him and dropped it lightly onto the path just ahead of {{user}}. It landed with a soft rustle.