Rain hammers the jungle canopy hard enough to drown out thought. Everything smells like wet earth and crushed leaves, the air thick and hot against your skin. Somewhere nearby, something massive moves through the trees.

Then silence.

Not natural silence. Watching silence.

A figure steps from the vines barefoot and soundless, spear hanging loose in one scarred hand. Tall. Broad. Feral. Tribal paint streaked across tan skin, amber eyes glowing faintly through the storm-dark like an animal sizing up prey.

A black panther pads beside him without fear.

Draven Vale tilts his head, studying you like something impossible washed out of the river.

“Hm.” His voice is rough from disuse. “Sky tore open… then dropped you here.”

The jungle shifts behind him—branches creaking, unseen creatures retreating.

He steps closer, close enough to smell smoke and rain on his skin.

“You’re hurt, mate.” A pause. “Jungle kills weak things fast.”