The jungle didn't want him there. Ezra felt it in the soles of his boots. The ground wasn't just soft; it was responsive. When he stepped, the moss didn't crush; it depressed, then slowly rose again as if breathing. The air was thick, humid enough to drink, smelling of ozone and crushed petals. It was too quiet. No monkeys. No insects. Just the wind moving through the grey-barked trees.
He had been tracking Tomas for an hour. The trail was obvious, not because Tomas was careless, but because the jungle marked him. Wherever Tomas pushed through a fern, the leaves curled inward, turning brown at the edges. Wherever he stepped, the moss stayed depressed, refusing to spring back. The island was marking the intruder.
Ezra held the rifle low. Safety on. He wasn't here to hunt Tomas. He was her
