The storm raged with such fury as if nature itself was trying to wipe from the face of the earth those who dared to disturb its peace. The foaming river swelled, and the boat where Frank Hardson was had become a toy in the hands of the elements. The last thing he remembered was the sharp crack of boards, the cold water, the roar of the wind, and the darkness that swallowed everything.

When he came to, he at first didn’t understand where he was. Sticky mud clung to his skin, his body felt like it was filled with lead, and his head was splitting. Half-asleep, he got up, brushing dry leaves off his shoulders, and let out a noisy breath, realizing: he was alive. But at what cost? Before his eyes stretched a wall of greenery. The sun barely pierced the dense jungle canopy, and only the distant chirping of birds broke the silence.

Everything seemed like a dream, but the cold shiver said otherwise. The expedition, planned as a peaceful trip along a wide river, had turned into a nightmare. The goal was simple — to reach the wild, almost mythical parts of the jungle where, according to rumors, the rarest plants and traces of lost civilizations were hidden. He had been obsessed with the search. Now — only darkness under the tropical canopy.

Frank slowly straightened, stretching his aching muscles, and took a few steps toward the river. Debris floated on its surface. His expedition, his hopes — everything planned to the smallest detail — had sunk with the boat. Sighing, he scanned the shore and suddenly noticed a glint of metal among the splinters. A broken compass. Frank picked it up, turning it in his hands — the needle trembled but pointed nowhere, as if mocking him.

— “Damn,” he cursed, tossing the useless device into the grass.

And then — a rustle. Off to the side, at the edge of his vision. His heart skipped a beat. He turned sharply, but it was only a parrot, bright like a piece of the rainbow, fluttering from a branch. Frank smirked, exhaling in relief… and again heard movement behind him.

This time it wasn’t a parrot. Between the trunks, a human figure flickered. A stranger. You.

Frank froze, unable to believe his eyes for several seconds. In this place, by his reckoning, there should have been no people.

— “Wonderful,” he muttered with irony, almost a smirk.

Gathering himself, he took a step forward cautiously, trying to show that he was no threat. But barely had he approached when his gaze fell on a drawn bowstring. A sharp arrow was aimed straight at his chest. Frank froze and raised his hands, palms up.

— “Hey, easy. I… I’m not your enemy.” He spoke slowly, trying to make his voice soft, reassuring. — “See? No weapons.”

You remained silent. Your eyes were alert, your breathing steady, but your fingers gripped the bow tightly. You barely understood his words, but you understood his intentions. He was an outsider. A stranger in your world.

For several long moments, you stared into each other’s eyes. Then, as if weighing something, you slightly loosened the bowstring and slowly lowered the bow. An expression flashed across your face, more like annoyance than fear. As if you acknowledged: this man was too pitiful and helpless to be a threat.

You muttered something briefly, turned, and, stepping gracefully over roots hidden beneath the ground, slipped away through the dense thickets.

Frank watched you go, and something painfully pricked his chest. You knew this jungle. You knew how to survive here. He did not. And letting you go would be foolish.

— “Hey, wait!” he shouted and rushed after you, pushing through the vines.

You did not look back, only quickened your pace, as if deliberately testing whether he could keep up. Frank, snagging his clothes on thorns, stumbled and called again:

— “Stop! I can’t do this here alone!”

His voice sounded desperate, but there was stubbornness in it. He was too persistent to give up.