The sounds get closer.
Not just noise-presence.
Branches snap in the thickening dusk, each crack echoing like a gunshot through the dense jungle. Leaves ripple in cascading waves, parting as something massive forces its way through them.
Then-an exhale.
Not human.
Not even animal in the way I've known animals.
A low, heavy rush of breath that vibrates through the ground and up my legs, like distant thunder rising from the spine of the earth.
My throat tightens until it's a thin, breathless knot. Instinct-raw and ancient-takes control of my limbs before reason can catch up. I stumble backward, blindly, until my spine hits a tree with a bone-jarring crack. Bark tears through my blouse, biting through cloth and scraping skin. The pain feels far away, drowned beneath the tidal wave of fear.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Hold my breath.
Count.
One. Two. Three.
Please pass me by.
Please don't see me.
Please be nothing.
Please be gone.
The footsteps stop.
Completely.
Silence spreads like a living thing-wide, suffocating, total. It presses into my ears until all I can hear is the pounding of my heart, frantic and too loud, betraying me. My lungs burn. My fingers dig into the rough bark behind me, trying to anchor myself to anything solid.
When I finally peel my eyes open, there's nothing.
No shadow curling between the trees.
No glow of reflected eyes.
No outline of claws or fur.
Whatever stalked me has vanished into the undergrowth-like it dissolved into the forest itself.
But I feel it.
Watching.
Waiting.
Circling.
A cold shiver crawls down my spine, prickling goosebumps across my arms. I press my back harder against the tree, trying to disappear into its ancient trunk as though its thousand-year-old strength might protect me from whatever I can't see.
Light fades the way a dying candle gutters-slowly, then all at once. The trees swallow the last hints of sun, their canopies sealing the sky shut. Mumbai nights never prepared me for this. Mumbai had noise, light pollution, the constant pulse of human life even at 3 AM.
This darkness is different.
Thick. Tangible.
A presence.
A pressure.
It presses against my skin like a damp, living shroud.
I slide down the tree until I'm hugging my knees. My skirt soaks through where it touches the moss-cold, slick, smelling of iron-rich soil and something sweet and decomposing. My legs ache from the hours I spent running, stumbling, surviving. My arms tremble so violently I have to hold them against myself to keep from unraveling completely.
"This can't be happening."
My whisper is barely a voice, just frayed breath.
"This can't be happening. This can't be happening."
I repeat it until the words dissolve into shaking.
The jungle doesn't transform.
The Metro doesn't reappear.
The device remains dead and cold in my lap-a mocking, metallic gravestone for everything familiar.
Then something howls.
Not a dog.
Not a jackal.
Not any creature I've heard outside horror films or nature documentaries narrated by overly calm British men.
This howl is ancient.
It slides from a low rumble into a long, mournful cry that vibrates in my bones. It ends on a deep, guttural resonance that makes the leaves tremble.
My breath stutters.
I curl tighter, trying to fold myself into something small enough to be forgotten.
In Mumbai, darkness was a backdrop-never empty, never still.
Here, darkness is alive.
It watches me with a thousand unseen eyes.
It listens.
It waits.
Every rustle jolts me upright. Every distant screech sends a shock through my chest. My heart has no rhythm anymore; it reacts to the jungle like prey detecting predators on all sides.
I think of tigers-silent until you feel their weight.
I think of snakes-rustling leaves moments before they strike.
I think of leopards-their eerie, saw-like coughs echoing in those late-night viral clips.
I imagine claws scraping bark.
A heavy body leaping from the bushes.
Teeth catching skin.
A silent kill.
A dragged, lifeless body.
Mine.
I try breathing like those meditation apps told me to.
In for four.
Hold for four.
Out for four.
It does nothing. My breaths come ragged despite the count.
Hours stretch into a torturous eternity.
Insects chirp in buzzing waves.
Deeper humming sounds thrum through the earth-almost like infrasound, felt more than heard, a slow vibrational pulse woven into the jungle's heartbeat.
Something massive crashes in the distance, and leaves overhead flutter like frightened birds.
Sleep is impossible.
Fear is a constant, sharp wire wrapped around my lungs.
By the time dawn's first thin gold threads break through the canopy, I'm shaking with exhaustion so deep it feels like my bones might crack.
I almost cry from relief.
My clothes look as wrecked as I feel-mud-smeared, sweat-soaked, blouse torn at the seams. My makeup is streaked, hardened into lines on my cheeks. I look like something dragged alive from the earth.
But I stand.
I sling my bag over my shoulder, fingers white-knuckling the dead device. "Okay," I whisper to the empty air. "Find people. Find a road. Find anything."
I pick a direction that feels like east-guided by the faintest hint of light. The forest floor is a maze of dangers: tangled roots, slippery moss, uneven patches of decaying leaves hiding pits beneath them. Every footstep demands focus and caution.
After twenty minutes, the pain becomes unbearable. My soles burn with a raw, blistered fire.
I take off my heels and shove them into my bag.
Barefoot is agony-cold dirt, grit, needles of thorns, biting insects-but it's still safer than the stupid heels.
The ground is cold, gritty, alive with tiny pricks from thorns and insects. Better than twisting an ankle, I tell myself.
Every few minutes I stop and listen.
Nothing familiar.
No planes.
No traffic hum.
No flow of electricity.
Just alien birds-warbling in strange intervals, trilling in patterns that feel mathematical, otherworldly. Insects whine, click, and pulse. Deep vibrations roll through the forest floor like something enormous shifting its weight.
Hours pass.
Sweat slides down my spine.
My stomach twists painfully-empty and angry.
No sign of people.
No trails.
No plastic.
No fire scars.
Not even footprints.
Just ancient trees with trunks wider than small cars, roots weaving like living architecture.
My stomach clenches, a sharp twist of hunger. No dinner last night. Barely any lunch-a rushed sandwich between meetings. My body demands fuel.
I spot a cluster of bushes ahead, heavy with fruits. Too heavy. Each one is fist-sized, smooth-skinned, glowing in neon purples and oranges that scream unnatural. Like mangoes mutated with dragonfruit, spiked rinds pulsing faintly.
My city brain kicks in immediately.
Rule 1 of surviving anywhere outside civilization: Don't eat weird things.
Especially weird things that look like they might be poisonous, alien, or carnivorous.
I poke one gently with a stick. It feels firm. A drop of sap leaks out-bright blue.
Yeah. No. Absolutely not.
If Discovery Channel has taught me anything, it's that eating unknown fruit is an excellent way to die foaming at the mouth.
I walk away quickly, ignoring the hunger twisting my stomach.
Around noon, I hear something moving. A lot of somethings.
I crouch behind a thick root as a herd of creatures wanders into a clearing just ahead.
They're shaped like deer, but not like any deer I've ever seen. Taller. Leaner. Their fur has patterns-spirals and streaks of iridescent color that shimmer when they move. Their eyes are too large, too intelligent. One lifts its head, ears twitching, nostrils flaring as though it can smell me.
My breath catches.
They're beautiful.
And terrifying.
Another city instinct rises: do not approach wildlife. Especially wildlife that looks like it could impale you with a single kick or call its bigger, angrier predator friends.
I stay crouched and absolutely still until the herd finishes grazing on a patch of glowing moss (again-terrifying) and drifts away.
Only when they are completely gone do I dare to breathe again.
By late afternoon, my legs ache. My throat is painfully dry. My hunger has become an ugly, gnawing thing. I feel lightheaded.
Then I hear it.
A sound of rushing water.
Hope flares.
I push through a thick curtain of vines and suddenly I am standing at the edge of a clearing.
Before me is a waterfall-massive, powerful, cascading down smooth black stone into a deep pool. Mist rises from the impact, catching the light in soft rainbow hues. The water looks impossibly clean, impossibly inviting.
I almost sob.
I stumble forward, dropping to my knees at the water's edge. I hesitate only a second before cupping the water in my trembling hands and bringing it to my lips.
It tastes clean. Pure.
Better than any water I've ever had.
I drink until my stomach hurts.
For a long moment, I sit there, letting the cool mist settle on my skin, letting the sound of rushing water drown out my panic.
The sun is beginning to dip again. Night will come soon.
I can't stay here forever. I can't survive on water alone. I need shelter. Food. Answers.
But for now-for this brief sliver of time-I let myself breathe.
Because after last night, simply surviving the dark feels like a miracle.
At some point, exhaustion wins.
I curl up on a patch of moss near the waterfall, my damp blouse sticking uncomfortably to my skin. The steady roar of water becomes a lullaby, drowning out the fear that still hums under my skin. My body aches everywhere-heels blistered, calves throbbing, stomach hollow with hunger. The ground is cold, but I don't care. I just need a few minutes. A moment to shut everything out.
I wrap my arms around myself and close my eyes.
The world goes dim, then dark.