The emergency alarm shrieked through the cabin as the plane bucked like a spooked horse. Mike Carter's champagne flute slid off his tray table, shattering against the bulkhead. Across the aisle, the co-pilot was shouting into the radio, his voice fraying at the edges:
"Mayday, Mayday—Gulfstream N814AL going down—"
Then the world upended.
Mike's stomach lurched as the jet corkscrewed, his body slamming against the seatbelt hard enough to bruise ribs. Oxygen masks dropped like hanged men. A woman three rows ahead screamed as her forehead cracked against the window, painting the glass red.
Flashback:
"The board voted unanimously, Mike." His CFO's smirk through the haze of a 20-year Macallan. "You're out."
Now, the jungle rushed up to meet him—a snarling green maw.
Impact.
Consciousness returned in jagged pieces.
First, the smell: jet fuel and loam, the coppery tang of blood—his own, dripping from a gash above his eyebrow.
Then the sounds: distant screeches of macaws, the groan of twisted metal settling.
Finally, the pain—a white-hot brand searing his left side. Mike blinked grit from his eyes and looked down. A shard of fuselage pinned his thigh to the seat, just shy of the femoral artery.
Alive. For now.
He gripped the metal and yanked.
» PAIN THRESHOLD EXCEEDED.
» ADRENALINE SPIKE DETECTED.
The world grayed at the edges as he tore free. Blood soaked his ruined Armani slacks, but he could still move.
Then—
» SYSTEM INITIALIZED.
Crimson text flickered in his vision, hovering like a specter:
» SURVIVAL MODE: ACTIVATED.
» HP: 23/100 | HUNGER: 87% | THIRST: 91%
Mike laughed—a raw, broken sound. I've finally lost it.
A growl cut him off.
Slowly, he turned his head.
Six feet away, a jaguar crouched in the wreckage, its golden eyes locked on his throat. Saliva dripped from dagger-length canines.
The beast's muscles coiled.
Mike's hand closed around a jagged piece of aluminum.
» IMPROVISED WEAPON CRAFTED: RUSTY SHANK (DMG: 5-8)
The jaguar lunged.
He rolled, feeling claws graze his shoulder. Hot blood slicked his skin.
» HP: 17/100
Fuck.
The beast circled, tail lashing. Mike's breath sawed in his lungs. His fingers brushed something cold—the co-pilot's survival knife, half-buried in mud.
» ITEM ACQUIRED: PILOT'S KNIFE (DMG: 10-15 | DURABILITY: 20/20)
The jaguar attacked again.
Mike swung.
The blade bit deep into fur and muscle. The beast howled, wrenching free, but now it bled too.
Flashback:
"You're soft, Carter." His martial arts instructor's sneer. "Never hesitate."
The jaguar pounced once more.
This time, Mike dropped low and rammed the knife upward.
» CRITICAL HIT!
» JAGUAR SLAIN. +50 XP.
The beast collapsed, twitching. Mike's hands shook as he yanked the blade free.
» SKILL UNLOCKED: BEAST SLAYER (LV.1)
» EFFECT: +5% DMG VS. ANIMAL-TYPE FOES.
Dusk bled across the sky.
Mike scavenged the wreck:
A dented water bottle (» THIRST: 78%)
A crushed protein bar (» HUNGER: 65%)»
QUEST UPDATED: SURVIVE THE NIGHT (REWARD: 100 XP)
He was tightening a makeshift bandage when the jungle hissed.
Pain pricked his neck.
Mike slapped at it—his fingers closed around a feathered dart.
» DEBUFF: NEUROTOXIN (PARALYSIS 60S)
His limbs locked. The world tilted as he crashed face-first into the mud.
Shadows moved between the trees.
A figure emerged—barefoot, her skin the color of sun-baked earth, a scar cutting from collarbone to navel. Golden eyes gleamed under the hood of a jaguar pelt.
She crouched, tilting his chin up with her spear.
"The gods spit you out," she murmured, her voice like a blade dragged over stone. "Or are you their joke?"
Darkness swallowed him whole.
Mike dreamed of fire.
Of a hospital bed. Of a woman sobbing—"You've been gone nine months!"
Then the dream twisted.
Drums pounded. A shaman chanted, his face painted with constellations.
» WARNING: REALITY SYNCHRONIZATION AT 5%
Mike woke to the sting of a blade at his throat.
The golden-eyed woman loomed over him, her lips curled.
"Welcome to hell, starwalker."