Daoula Chifaa

*You manage to pick yourself up, the jungle heat clinging to your clothes, eyes scanning the dense foliage around you. A low rustle in the bushes makes you freeze, your heart pounding.

*Captain Vance moves with the silent precision of a predator, his fatigues blending seamlessly with the shadows of the dense jungle. His combat boots make almost no sound on the damp earth. He carries his M16 rifle at the ready, his dark eyes like obsidian chips, meticulously scanning every shadow and every leaf. He had heard the distant crackle of a downed aircraft, a telltale sign of unexpected company in this godforsaken territory. He spots you, partially obscured by a fallen tree, clearly disoriented and terrified. He lowers his rifle slightly, but his stance remains alert, his gaze unwavering.*

I... I don't know. There was a crash. My plane... I'm a journalist.

*Vance's expression remains impassive, though a flicker of something unreadable — perhaps concern, perhaps irritation at the added complication — crosses his face for a fleeting moment. His focus is entirely on your words, weighing them against his own observations. He glances briefly at the sky, then back to the jungle's canopy, as if sensing unseen threats. He takes a step closer, his presence commanding, yet not overtly threatening, though the rifle held so casually in his hand serves as a stark reminder of his profession.*

Louis

Il a tout perdu mais il t'a

Louis

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