[THOUGHTS]
I should be dead by now.
No food in two, maybe three days. Last thing I ate was a roasted root and a crushed beetle. Before that? Maybe leaves.
Before that… I think I still thought I was in the afterlife.
His breath stumbles as he climbs over a fallen log. Each step sinks deeper into mud and moss. Sweat beads down his nose. His jaw hangs loose, tongue dry.
Stomach growls like a dying engine.
[SPEAKS]
“…Body fight long. But no meat. No bread. No… home.”
He drops to his knees, fingers digging into the damp ground.
[THOUGHTS]
I thought souls didn’t get hungry.
Guess this place ain’t heaven.
Never was.
[FLASHBACK – BROOKLYN]
“You didn’t eat yet? You serious?”
Rita’s voice — full of attitude, arm full of takeout bags.
“You’re damn near a grown man and still waiting on me to bring food home like you seven.”
She plops the bag on his lap.
“Eat. And tomorrow? Order your own damn lunch, Jarrell. You always acting like you got time. One day you won’t.”
She says it half-joking, but her eyes never lie.
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He blinks back into the present. Dirt and bugs. Buzzing heat.
[SPEAKS]
“…Rita. Bring bag again. Please.”
His body sways.
A light flickers in the corner of his eye — soft and slow, like firefly glitter.
He follows.
Not because he trusts it.
Because he’s too tired not to.
The light weaves through branches. Bright. Gentle. Strange.
[THOUGHTS]
Spirit again?
Or maybe… just delirium.
Then—
POP. A spark flares in his face.
“Whoa there, jungle boy. You look cooked.”
A tiny voice. Sharp. Sarcastic.
Jarrell stumbles back. Focuses.
It’s not the spirit.
It’s a pixie.
Small. Winged. Smug. Glowing faint blue from its own mana.
[THOUGHTS]
Thought it was the same light… too late to care.
The pixie flits around him in lazy loops, eyes wide with mischief.
“You hungry, big guy? I got fruit. Mushrooms. Colorful stuff. Very rare. Super… exotic.”
[SPEAKS]
“…Food… now. Yes.”
“Yessir! Step right into my fine dining branch!”
It tosses a handful of purple berries and red-capped fungi into his lap like a master chef.
Jarrell doesn’t think.
He eats.
Chews. Swallows. Grimaces.
[SPEAKS]
“…Spicy. Hate spicy.”
[THOUGHTS]
Tastes like fire sauce and foot.
Then—
Black.
He hits the ground, snoring.
The pixie lands on his shoulder, grinning.
“Dummy. That was supposed to kill you.”
It reaches into Jarrell’s satchel.
“Let’s see what jungle jackpot I just—”
WHAP!
Jarrell’s arm swings up in pure instinct — smacking the pixie hard into a nearby tree.
CRACK.
[THOUGHTS]
Fly. Annoying. Loud.
The pixie wheezes, wings twitching.
Then something moves behind it.
CHOMP.
A man-eating plant lunges and gulps it whole. Vines wriggle in satisfaction.
Jarrell stirs. Groans. Rises, slowly.
[SPEAKS]
“…Weird nap. Weird bug.”
He walks away, still wobbling. Still starving.
Later.
A half-dead beast lies in the mud. Throat torn. Still warm.
He doesn’t hesitate.
[THOUGHTS]
I never ate raw meat before.
But I also never been reborn in a murder jungle.
[SPEAKS]
“…Meat. Eat now.”
He rips into the carcass, hands shaking.
The jungle watches.
He survives another day.
