[FLASHBACK – BROOKLYN]
“You need a girl, Jarrell. For real.”
Rita sat across the couch, legs up, munching chips.
He glanced over, unimpressed.
“You don’t think it’s weird that all your tabs are MMA, anime, and ‘how to throw elbows from bottom guard’?”
[THOUGHTS]
She had jokes. Always did.
“I’m just sayin’, live a little. You too chill. Too nonchalant.”
She popped another chip.
He smirked. Shrugged.
“I’m not nonchalant,” he said, sipping his drink, “I just know peace when I see it.”
“Boy, you don’t know peace — you know dodge.”
Her grin was real though. Soft.
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That was the last day he remembered being full.
[CURRENT – JUNGLE]
The wind cuts soft across the treetops today — cooler than usual.
Jarrell’s breathing is calm, but his eyes flicker.
[THOUGHTS]
I ain’t seen her in four months.
But her voice still here.
Still nags. Still holds me up.
He kneels at a stream, hands dipped in cold water.
[SPEAKS]
“…Rita. I get back. Even if not… this body. I get back.”
He stands. Steps slow, but sure.
An hour later — the trees open up.
What he finds looks different.
Metal pipe. Broken crate. A snapped scaffold of bone and rope — too clean to be nature.
[THOUGHTS]
What the hell is this?
Signs of civilization. Of people. Tools. Maybe… hope?
His heart lifts just slightly.
Then—
A shimmer. Dust swirl. And that faint pulse in the back of his mind.
The spirit again.
[THOUGHTS]
It always shows when something heavy about to hit.
Jarrell squints. Tries to reach out.
But the wind shifts. Carries more than leaves.
It carries whispers.
Growls.
Too many.
He spins.
Too late.
SNAP. CRACK.
Bushes erupt with motion — green-skinned, hunched figures with tusks and split-ears: goblin beasts. Not standard fantasy kind — more primal. Feral. Half-wild.
Three rush him from the left.
[SPEAKS]
“Back. Now!”
He throws out a palm, casting:
[SPEAKS]
“Vela—Tekk!”
Nothing.
[THOUGHTS]
What? Why didn’t it fire?
A blade scrapes his arm. He stumbles. Another leaps — he ducks, grabs it mid-air, slams it down.
He fights back with fists and knees — Muay Thai elbows, Wing Chun swipes.
Cracks one skull.
Dislocates a jaw.
But he’s smaller now. Lighter.
And numbers win.
The leader goblin — thicker, armored with bone and fangs braided in its mane — slips behind him mid-sweep.
CRACK.
A club hits the back of his neck.
Lights out.
Jarrell drops, eyes rolling back.
The beasts howl in triumph. The leader spits on the ground.
One of them pokes Jarrell’s cheek. Nothing.
They bind him.
Drag him.
Into the dark.