The jungle swallowed us whole.
Not gently. Not like a blanket pulled over your shoulders or the hush of sleep creeping in.
It devoured us.
One breath at a time.
No lights. No skills. Just us—boots pressed into slick earth, breath kept on a leash, eyes scanning the shadows for movement that didn't belong. The air was thick with the stench of wet rot and leaf mold, undercut by something metallic—tension, old and serrated, pressing along the edges of our necks like a wire we couldn't trace back to its spool.
Every tree leaned in like it wanted to hear us fail.
"North perimeter," 3830 whispered, her voice thinner than the wind but sharper than broken glass. "Twenty meters wide. Staggered arc. No direct engagement."
She didn't wait for acknowledgment.
She didn't need to.
That kind of voice didn't allow room for argument. It didn't ask for trust. It demanded silence—and got it.
The rest of us fell into motion.
