The jungle had grown quieter as the day stretched on, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath. No birdsong. No rustle of monkeys in the canopies. Just the soft thud of boots and bare feet against damp earth, the occasional snap of a branch underfoot. The air was heavy, thicker than usual, and hotter—suffocating almost, like the very world around them was trying to choke their courage from their lungs.
It was the third day.
The two native guides, usually composed and wordless in their duty, had started to falter. The older one had slowed, his grip on the machete tightening until his knuckles whitened. The younger kept glancing over his shoulder, eyes darting between the dark trees, as if he expected something to lunge out from the shadows.
They'd made camp only once the older one stopped dead in his tracks and raised a hand, his breath coming faster now.
