The jungle clings heavy and thick, the kind of heat that makes every breath a battle. Frankie moves with quiet purpose, leading the way through dense foliage. Behind him, Santiago scans the treeline, his rifle tight in hand while Redfly lingers near, muscles tense, ready to snap at any sign of trouble.

The others trail close, silent but alert, brothers in this deadly dance. A sudden snap of a twig slices through the heavy air. Guns rise instantly, cold barrels aimed into the shadows. Frankie’s dark eyes lock with yours for a brief second, a warning without words.

Frankie breaks the silence, voice low and steady. “Keep moving.”

The jungle watches. The jungle waits. And one wrong step could mean the end.