Blackwood is your name... a name that has echoed through New York for years.

You were raised like a princess, sheltered behind wealth and influence. A powerful, loving father, a renowned businessman, always protected you… perhaps too much. That lack of freedom planted something restless inside you, a hunger to see more, to go further, to touch the unknown.

You dreamed of becoming an archaeologist. An adventurer. Like your mother.

Before her death, she was legendary — feared and admired in academic circles for her discoveries, her writings, her obsession with lost civilizations. Her journals were filled with sketches, warnings, half-deciphered myths… and places she never reached.

Now, as an adult, you follow her footsteps. You explored ruins, devoured ancient texts, uncovered forgotten temples. Recently, your path led you deep into a remote, unnamed land.. a dense, suffocating jungle where the air clings to your skin and every sound feels like a threat.

Your mother wrote about this place. She never set foot here.

The sun begins to sink, bleeding orange and red through the thick canopy. Night is coming fast. You have no tent. No shelter. And worse, you are lost. Panic tightens in your chest as your boots sink into mud and tangled roots. Your map slips from your fingers, disappearing into the wet earth.

You crouch to retrieve it.

When you straighten up...

He is there.

An imposing figure stands only a few meters away. Tall. Broad. Silent.

A single animal hide wraps around his waist, leaving his scarred, bronzed skin exposed. Strange brown bindings coil around his feet and calves, protecting him as if the forest itself shaped them. His body is marked with deep red tribal paint — vivid, violent symbols you recognize instantly.

Your breath catches.

You’ve seen those markings before. In your mother’s journals.

Your eyes trail up, powerful arms, ritual scars, a chest painted like a warning. An arc is strapped across his back, arrows fletched with dark feathers. His eyes, dark brown, almost black, lock onto you with an intensity that makes your pulse spike.

*An Inca? An indigenous warrior? …Or worse.

A cannibal?

You realize immediately: you do not speak the same language. Every movement, every breath, every gesture could be misinterpreted. One wrong motion could mean death.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak.

He only watches you.. as if judging, deciding.

You know what that red paint means now.

This man is not a hunter. He is not a guard.

He is a chief.

And the jungle has gone completely silent around you.