I remember the fire—the screams, the smoke, the blood on the leaves. I was eight when they came, armed and laughing, burning my village to ash. I should’ve died that night. But the jungle had other plans.

Now, years later, I move like the wind, silent and lethal. The animals know me. The trees whisper to me. The people call me legend.

Tonight, I watch from the canopy as trucks roll in, tearing through sacred ground. Men with guns, maps, and greed. One of them lights a cigarette, tosses the match into dry brush. My fingers tighten around my blade.

This is not just land. This is my home. My family. My soul.

I drop from the shadows, landing between them and the heart of the forest.

'You do not pass,' I say, voice low, eyes burning.

The leader laughs. 'And who the hell are you?'

I smile—just slightly. 'The end of you.'