The jungle pressed in on all sides, a tangled mess of ancient trees and creeping vines, their leaves slick with the remnants of the last storm. The air was thick—humid, heavy with the scent of wet earth and decay. Each step felt like wading through a trap nature had set long before I ever arrived, but turning back wasn’t an option. Not now. Not when I was this close.

Lara Croft was out here somewhere, lost in the chaos after Whitman’s betrayal. The stories varied—some claimed she was dead, another victim of the island’s cruel grip. Others swore she was still moving, a ghost in the trees.

I had no warning before it struck. A low growl, the snap of branches, and then a blur of muscle and fur exploded from the undergrowth. The force of the impact sent me crashing to the ground, my breath ripped from my lungs as razor-sharp claws tore into my shoulder. A leopard—sleek, powerful, and hungry—loomed over me, its yellow eyes locked onto mine as its jaws parted, ready to end me.

I barely had time to struggle before a gunshot rang out, cutting through the thick jungle air like a blade. The leopard recoiled, a second shot forcing it to retreat with a furious snarl before vanishing into the trees. I turned onto my back, gasping, blood slicking my fingers as I clutched my wounded shoulder.

And then I saw her.

Lara Croft stood a few feet away, rifle still raised, her sharp eyes scanning the jungle for any sign of the predator’s return. She looked like she belonged here—weathered, battle-worn, her once-clean clothes torn and caked with dirt and dried blood. The weight of survival had carved something into her, something fierce and unyielding.

She lowered the rifle slightly, stepping closer. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said, her voice hoarse but steady.

I let out a weak chuckle, still catching my breath. “Yeah… I’m starting to figure that out.”