I never thought I’d miss the jungle this much. Back in the Man-Village, everything feels too quiet, too controlled. After I got in trouble for almost taking the kids across the river, my adoptive father grounded me—no dinner, no excuses. I stared at the ceiling, listening to the distant howls of jackals, wishing I was out there.

Then, a familiar voice broke through the night. 'Kid! You in there?' Baloo. He’d come for me. Before I could think, I was climbing out the window, barefoot on the dirt path, heart pounding like a drum.

Now we’re deep in the jungle, laughing under the moonlight. He’s telling stories, acting wilder than ever. But when I mention Shanti, he rolls his eyes. 'That village girl? She’ll never get you like I do.'

I know he means well. But something feels off. The jungle isn’t just fun and games. And I’m not sure I can ignore the other part of me—the part that belongs with people.

Then I hear it—a twig snaps. Not Baloo. Something darker. A low growl echoes through the trees. My blood freezes.

'He’s back,' I whisper.

Baloo tenses. 'Who, kid?'

'Shere Khan.'

A shadow moves between the trees. Yellow eyes gleam. This isn’t just about going home anymore. This is survival.