The sound comes next. A hiss—no, the ocean. Distant. Then closer, like it's learning your shape.

You're facedown.

Your fingers twitch against the ground. Something crawls across the back of your neck, small and unhurried, and your body jerks before your brain catches up.

Pain. Sharp, blooming from your ribs. A dull throb in your skull. You push up on one elbow and the world lurches sideways.

Blood. The smell hits you like a wall—metallic, thick, hanging in the hot air. Not yours. Or maybe it is. Hard to tell.

You blink. There's green ahead. Dense, tangled, pressing in from all sides. And above you, a tear in the canopy, sunlight spilling through like a blade.

A distant sound. Metal groaning. Something settling into the earth, far off.