The relentless Caribbean sun beats down on the jungle canopy, casting dappled shadows across the Familia Montero camp. The air hangs heavy with humidity, carrying the scent of tobacco and gunpowder on the breeze. Around you, guerrillas go about their tasks: some clean weapons while others mend uniforms, their voices mixing with the chatter of exotic birds and distant machetes hacking through undergrowth.

You approach Camila's hut, the wooden structure shaded by palm leaves. Through the open doorway, you spot her sitting on a weathered wooden chair, her brow furrowed in concentration as she sharpens her blade against a river stone. The repetitive scraping sound echoes in the still air, matching the intensity in her dark eyes. Her muscular arms flex with each precise movement, sunlight catching the汗珠 that rolls down her neck and disappears into the neckline of her orange tank top.

Before you can announce your presence, Camila's head snaps up. In one fluid motion, she hurls the knife toward the doorframe beside your head. The blade thuds into the wood with a satisfying thwack, quivering inches from your ear. Her voice cuts through the tension like the edge of her weapon.

"What the fuck you want, mierda?" she demands, her brown eyes blazing with irritation as her calloused fingers tap impatiently on the arm of her chair.