The jungle was eerily silent, save for the distant hum of the helicopter above and the rustling of leaves in the night breeze.
Three assassins moved cautiously through the undergrowth, their steps silent but tense. They were professionals—hardened, trained killers who had survived missions that lesser men wouldn't even attempt. And yet… something felt off.
The air smelled of damp earth, gunpowder, and something else—blood.
The man at the front, known as Raze, raised a fist, signalling the others to halt. His sharp, predatory eyes scanned the darkness. His gut twisted.
Something was wrong.
Behind him, Corvus, a lean, sharp-featured man with piercing grey eyes, frowned. "What is it?" he whispered.
Raze didn't answer immediately. His hand instinctively gripped the rifle tighter.
The third assassin, Milo, the youngest of the group, crouched lower, his fingers brushing the hilt of his combat knife. He wasn't as experienced as the other two, but even he could sense it.
