JUNGLE SAFARI GONE WRONG

LOCATION: RIO de JANEIRO

THE SAME DAY OF THE INCIDENT WITH PETROV

The car rolled through the fractured streets of Rio de Janeiro, its engine humming softly against the backdrop of a broken city.

The vehicle—a matte black sedan with a reinforced frame—glided over the uneven asphalt, its tires crunching against stray debris and shattered glass.

The driver, a man in his mid-thirties, had sharp, calculating eyes that flickered between the rearview mirror and the road ahead. His face, chiseled by time and hardship, bore the faint shadow of a beard.

Luca Morales drove with one hand lazily on the wheel, the other resting near his hip—where a pistol sat snug against his ribs.

He wasn't in a rush. He never was.

Outside, the city groaned under its weight, a wounded beast limping forward through time.

Collapsed buildings loomed like skeletal remains, their steel frames jagged and rusting, reaching toward the sky like the broken ribs of a fallen titan. The roads beneath them were fractured and uneven, littered with shattered glass, crumbled concrete, remnants of a past life—faded billboards advertising products that no longer existed, street signs pointing to places that had long since fallen into ruin.

Streetlights buzzed weakly, their dim glow casting trembling shadows onto the cracked pavement. They were remains of the old world, struggling against the ever-creeping darkness. 

The once-thriving districts of Zona Sul and Centro, once the heart of Rio de Janeiro, had been hollowed out by disaster and time. Their streets, once pulsing with life, now carried only whispers of the past.

Makeshift markets had sprung up amid the wreckage—vendors selling scavenged electronics, black-market medicine, and home-brewed alcohol, anything that could keep people afloat. Nearby, small repair shops worked endlessly, their dimly lit interiors packed with salvaged machines and desperate workers trying to patch together whatever could still be used.

But not all streets held onto life.

Some had been abandoned entirely, reclaimed by nature or something worse.

Ivy and moss crept over the ruins, vines twisting through shattered windows and broken doorways as if trying to stitch the city back together in their way. In these places, the only sounds were the distant howls of stray dogs and the wind whispering through hollowed-out buildings.

Those who still lived in Rio knew better than to linger in such places after dark.

In the distance, above the broken skyline, stood Christ the Redeemer.

Or what was left of it.

The towering statue, once a symbol of faith and unity, now bore the wounds of catastrophe. Cracks ran deep through its stone surface. The statue had broken away entirely, leaving a space whose grace had once blessed the city below. Scaffolding wrapped around its base, workers moving like ants, trying to restore what had been lost. Welding sparks flickered in the night, tiny bursts of light against the vast darkness.

 He came across a dimly lit street, letting the engine quiet as he slowed to a stop.

He felt it.

The Eyes on him.

The street was lined with silent watchers, their gazes heavy, unreadable. Men slouched against the walls of crumbling buildings, some sitting on doorsteps, others leaning against rusted-out motorbikes. Their faces were half-lit by the dim glow of streetlights, shadows carving out sharp lines across their expressions.

Some smoked, the glow of their cigarettes flickering like fireflies in the gloom. Others rested their hands near their belts, where blades or guns likely rested. A quiet, unspoken tension crackled in the air.

This wasn't a neighborhood where outsiders could walk freely.

Luca's gaze swept over them, cataloging the familiar faces—fighters, runners, thieves, and ghosts of the old world. These weren't regular civilians. These were his men. His people.

A few shifted, their body language cautious, waiting for a sign.

Then, Luca nodded. Slow. Deliberate. Controlled.

A beat passed.

The tension shattered.

A handful of men stepped forward, at first cautiously, then with genuine familiarity. 

Luca smirked, stepping forward, his movements measured yet easy. As the first man reached him, their hands clasped in a firm shake, fingers locking with a quiet sense of understanding. The tension in the street, which had been thick like jungle air before a storm, began to break.

"Morales." The man nodded, his voice rough with the edge of long nights and harder days.

"Good to see you back, boss," another added, stepping in with a clap on Luca's shoulder, the impact solid, grounding.

More men gathered around, their postures loosening, the wariness melting into something else—something familiar.

Bruno, his face lined with old scars and the weight of years spent in the underbelly of the city, grinned and muttered in Spanish,

"Thought you went soft on us, cabrón."

Luca chuckled, shaking his head. "Soft? You wish."

Luis, younger than the rest but just as sharp, elbowed Diego in the ribs.

"He's probably been drinking fancy shit and enjoying himself while we're out here working."

Diego snorted. "Yeah? Then why does he look like he hasn't slept in days?"

"Ask your mama, chico," Luca retorted.

The group broke into low, knowing laughter, the kind that came from men who had lived through too much together.

Someone passed a cigarette; Luca took it, letting the smoke curl between his fingers before handing it off again. Another handed him a half-empty bottle of rum, and he took a swig, the burn settling warm in his chest.

Around them, the night in the city carried on—the distant sound of music, laughter from open windows, a couple arguing in rapid Portuguese from a balcony above. But here, in this little pocket of the world, Luca was home.

The men weren't just soldiers, criminals, or survivors.

They were his. And they were waiting for him to lead.

Here, among these streets, Luca Morales wasn't just a name. He was a presence. A returning king—or maybe a returning soldier who had survived another war.

This was his turf. His home.

SOMETIME LATER

The dimly lit backroom was thick with the scent of cigar smoke and spilled liquor. A single bulb flickered above, casting long shadows on the scarred wooden table where Luca and his men gathered. Their eyes gleamed with anticipation, their postures relaxed but charged with the undercurrent of something bigger.

Luca leaned forward, his fingers drumming against the table's surface as he scanned the faces of his crew.

"Listen up," he said, voice low and steady. "This is the biggest shipment we've had since the Shift. Weapons. Drugs. Enough money to buy a goddamn city if we wanted. The cartel is moving it through the Amazon, and we're the ones bringing it in."

A murmur of approval rippled through the room, some nodding, others exchanging glances.

Rodrigo, a broad-shouldered man with a jagged scar running down his cheek, grinned. "How much firepower we talking?"

Luca smirked. "Enough to make sure no one—government, rival gang, or those jungle-dwelling psychos—tries to fuck with us."

Bruno let out a low whistle. "Cartel from Colombia, huh? Thought they didn't trust us much after… y'know."

A brief silence settled over the room. Everyone remembered.

Years ago, back when the world still functioned, the Brazilian and Colombian syndicates were anything but allies. Bloody turf wars, double-crosses, and bodies left in shallow graves defined their history. But the Shift changed everything.

Now, it wasn't about loyalty or old grudges. It was about survival.

Luca shrugged, running a hand through his short dark hair. "That was before the Shift. Before the world went to hell. Now? It's just business. They need soldiers. We need resources. This deal goes smooth, we become untouchable."

The room hummed with a mix of excitement and ruthless ambition.

Luis, the youngest of the crew, leaned forward. "And if it doesn't go smooth?"

Rodrigo snorted. "Then we make sure it does."

Luca chuckled, shaking his head. "Nah, kid's got a point."

He exhaled, letting the weight of their situation settle.

"We all know how this works. The world ain't gonna stay like this forever. Governments are licking their wounds now, but give them time, and they'll be back on their feet. And when they do? They'll come for us first."

Bruno cracked his knuckles. "Then we take what we can while we can."

Luca nodded. "Exactly. This ain't just about one job. This is about staying ahead. The drugs, the weapons, the money—it's not just for business. It's for what comes after. We need to be ready."

Rodrigo smirked. "And if that means playing nice with some cartel bastards, so be it."

Luca lifted his glass, swirling the dark liquid inside. "So be it."

The tension in the room eased, replaced by something more solid.

Trust.

Brotherhood.

Luca wasn't just a boss to them. He was the one who had pulled them together when the world fell apart. When the old structures crumbled, when survival meant clawing for every scrap, Luca had been the one to give them direction, purpose.

Luca set his glass down with a quiet thunk.

He wasn't just here to celebrate or hype them up, he was here to make sure they understood what was at stake.

"This ain't about playing gangster," he said, looking each of them in the eye.

"Every choice we make now? It decides if we're still standing five years from now—or if we're just another story people tell about how things used to be."

The room fell silent, his words sinking in.

Luis shifted in his seat. "But what if it does go back to how things were? Governments, order… all of it?"

Rodrigo scoffed, but Luca raised a hand to stop him. He respected the question.

"Then we adapt." His voice was calm, certain.

"That's the difference between us and the ones that fall. We don't just take. We build. We prepare." He leaned forward, his voice lowering. "Because when that time comes? When they come knocking, thinking they can put us down like animals?"

A slow smirk crept across his lips. "We'll be too powerful for them to touch."

Bruno exhaled, shaking his head with a chuckle. "Damn, Luca. You always gotta make this shit sound like some prophecy."

The men laughed,

Luis still had that look.

Luca caught it. He leaned over, his voice lower, meant only for Luis. "You worried about something?"

Luis hesitated. "It's just... the Amazon, man. It's not just the cartel's problem. You hear the stories."

Rodrigo scoffed. "What stories?"

Luis looked around, unsure if he should even say it. But he did.

"People disappearing. Entire groups going in and never coming back. It's not just the jungle. It's something else."

The room went quiet for a moment.

Then, Bruno laughed, shaking his head. "Jesus, kid. You been listening to those crazy old bastards again?"

Rodrigo leaned in with a smirk. "What, you think there's something out there? Some monster waiting for us?"

Luis shook his head, frustrated. "I'm saying something's off. The jungle's always been dangerous, but ever since the Shift, shit's different."

Luca exhaled, then placed a firm hand on Luis' shoulder.

"You think I'd take us into something we couldn't handle? We are the ones whose stories are told, kiddo"

Luis swallowed hard and shook his head.

"Good. Then trust me. This? This is the job that changes everything for us."

The young man exhaled sharply and nodded.

Luca smirked, giving him a light shove. "Now stop thinking too much and get ready. We leave at first light."

SIX DAYS LATER [ PRESENT]

LOCATION: AMAZON[ NEAR THE COLUMBIAN BORDER]

The jungle stretched endlessly before them, a dark mass of towering trees and unfamiliar peaks that pierced the night sky.

The Amazon had always been vast, but after the Shift, it had become something else entirely.

Whole landscapes had changed—mountains now stood where there had been only dense forest, rivers had shifted course, and parts of the jungle that had once been mapped were now completely foreign.

And yet, the air still carried that same thick humidity, the scent of damp earth, and the distant, ceaseless hum of unseen creatures.

Luca's crew had been traveling for six days now, moving carefully along the outskirts of the jungle near the Colombian border.

No military patrols.

No rangers.

No checkpoints.

That alone was enough to unsettle Luis.

Sitting by the fire as the scent of roasting meat filled the air, he nudged Rodrigo, who was sharpening his knife with slow, practiced movements.

"We haven't seen a single soldier since we crossed into this place," Luis muttered. "No rangers. No border patrols. Nothing. Shouldn't there be… someone?"

Rodrigo didn't stop sharpening, the scrape of metal against metal filling the brief silence. Then, with a smirk, he glanced at the younger man.

"You think governments have the time to worry about a jungle?" he asked.

Luis frowned. "But still—"

Rodrigo exhaled, finally setting his knife down. His expression turned serious.

"You don't get it, chico." He motioned vaguely at the jungle surrounding them. "When the Shift hit, almost half the damn world was wiped out in a year. Cities flooded, earthquakes swallowed entire towns, entire fucking countries burned. The survivors? They weren't thinking about guarding trees—they were too busy not dying."

Luis swallowed. He had seen it himself. The day the sky changed, the weeks of chaos, the months of absolute hell that followed. 

"So what? Governments just gave up?"

Rodrigo let out a dry chuckle.

"No, they have restructured. The United Front formed, and whatever was left of the big players—America, China, Russia, the EU—decided survival came first. They pooled their resources, focused on keeping the biggest cities from collapsing completely. But that meant everything else—forests, remote towns, entire fucking regions—got abandoned."

Luis looked around, as if expecting to suddenly see movement in the trees. "And the cartels?"

Rodrigo smirked, tossing a twig into the fire.

"We adapted faster than any government ever could. While the big dogs were arguing over treaties and rebuilding, we were already making moves. New smuggling routes, new suppliers, new buyers. We mapped out this jungle before the governments even knew it had changed."

Luca, sitting across from them, let out a low chuckle. "That's why we're here, Luis. We own these routes now."

Luis nodded slowly. It was starting to make sense.

The world hadn't returned to order—it had simply shifted into something new.

And in this new world, it wasn't governments calling the shots anymore.

It was men like them.

The fire crackled softly as they sat around the camp, the scent of freshly cooked meat filling the air. They had hunted a tapir earlier that morning, and now, thick cuts of its flesh sizzled over the open flames.

Rodrigo ripped off a piece and tossed it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "Not bad. Tastes better than that dry-ass rations we had last time."

Bruno grinned. "That's 'cause I cooked it."

Rodrigo scoffed. "Yeah? Maybe next time don't burn the edges, chef."

THUD

A heavy weight collapsing somewhere beyond the campfire's glow.

Luca's instincts kicked in immediately. His hand went to his gun as he turned his head toward the source of the sound. The conversation around the fire died. The only thing that remained was the crackling of burning wood and the distant hum of the jungle.

Rodrigo stood first, scanning the darkness. "What the fuck was that?"

No one answered.

Then Bruno, muttering under his breath, pushed himself up and moved toward the noise. The others followed cautiously, weapons drawn.

As they approached, the stench of fresh blood hit them first.

Then they saw it.

A jaguar, sprawled out on the forest floor. Its golden fur was slick with blood, its belly ripped open from throat to gut. Entrails spilled onto the damp earth, steaming in the cool night air. The beast's eyes were still open, frozen in its final moment of pain.

Rodrigo took a cautious step forward, squatting near the corpse. He reached out, pressing two fingers against the jaguar's neck.

The body was still warm.

"Whatever did this… it's still out there."

Luca's grip on his gun tightened. The jungle was full of predators, but nothing they knew could do this.

Then Bruno cursed, snapping everyone's attention toward him. He was squinting into the dark, past the treeline.

"There's something out there," he muttered. "I saw—Rodrigo, shine the damn light over there."

Rodrigo pulled out his flashlight, flicking it on. The beam cut through the darkness, landing on the dense underbrush.

Nothing.

Then—

Something moved.

The undergrowth shifted. A faint rustling.

And before anyone could react—

It lunged.

The thing came out of the darkness like a nightmare made flesh. Hairless. Pale. Misshapen. A grotesque parody of life, its elongated snout filled with jagged teeth, its long clawed arms reaching out like spears.

It moved fast—too fast.

The last thing Bruno saw was razor-sharp claws slashing across his face, tearing flesh from bone.

A scream—cut short as his gut was ripped open, his body collapsing to the ground in a wet, messy heap.

Blood sprayed across the jungle floor.

Rodrigo's cry of horror rang through the trees.

Luis hit the ground, scrambling backward in pure terror, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Luca's mind screamed at him to move, but his body froze for just a moment—just long enough to realize what was happening.

The jungle had changed.

And something in it was

hunting them.