In the United States of America.
Southwest California, along the land hugging the West Coast.
A bustling city rises there.
It's Los Angeles, known as the "City of Angels."
Tucked in the hills and woods linking Los Angeles to the San Gabriel Mountains stands a cozy log cabin with an old-world charm reminiscent of rustic European folklore from across the Atlantic.
It's encircled by a sturdy fence crafted from logs of just the right girth.
Inside this humble barrier, a patch of everyday veggies thrives—fresh greens that catch the eye with their vibrant hue.
Beyond the fence stretches a dense wilderness, alive with the buzz of insects, the songs of birds, and the occasional growl of wild animals echoing from the depths.
Two guys with starkly different builds sat around a table out front of the cabin.
A wooden spoon carved from cherry wood dipped into the herbal blend, scooping it into a clay mug. Hot water from the nearby stove poured over it, sending up steam laced with the soothing scent.
Long, nimble fingers with pronounced knuckles gave the mug a gentle swirl, then carefully poured the brew into the cups on the table.
Lifting one and passing it to the mountain of a man across from him, Emerson said with a touch of wistfulness.
"Wilson, it's been two years since we caught up."
The big guy, Wilson, shifted uncomfortably on the little stool. Clearly, Emerson's handcrafted seat wasn't built for his bulk.
After a few wobbles, Wilson chucked the stool aside, plopped straight onto the ground, and grabbed the cup. A flicker of sentiment crossed his rugged face.
"We're both grinding away at our own dreams these days. Quiet moments like this don't come around much anymore."
He pinched the cup between his thick fingers and took a polite sip. A spark of hope lit up Wilson's eyes.
"Emerson, buddy, you sure you won't lend a hand?"
"Wilson, you've got your path, and I've got mine!"
Emerson lounged back on his stool, his easygoing voice steady and relaxed.
Not satisfied, Wilson knocked back the rest of the hot brew in one gulp, ignoring the scald.
"Fine, I figured as much. So, how's your stuff coming along?"
At Wilson's question, Emerson shook his head with a rueful grin.
"Mine's a real headache—gonna take a bit longer to sort out."
"Hey, if there's any way I can pitch in, just say the word."
Wilson had no clue what Emerson was really up to, but his rock-solid trust in his friend meant he never pried.
In his mind, Emerson had always been the self-reliant type who didn't need anyone's two cents.
"You didn't trek out here just to shoot the breeze. I bet your life back in New York doesn't let you skip town on a whim."
Emerson steered the conversation, teasing with a spark of curiosity.
Even without constant check-ins, they kept tabs on each other's worlds.
Wilson rubbed the back of his neck and chuckled. "Can't slip one past you. Yeah, I've got a favor to ask."
"Oh? Must be big if it's got you this keyed up." Emerson leaned forward a bit, intrigued.
He knew Wilson inside out—the guy wasn't one to overreact. If he was making a special trip, it had to matter a ton.
"One of my outfits stumbled on this incredible plant. Get my hands on it, and my project's gonna skyrocket." Wilson got dead serious, leaning in with intensity.
"Incredible plant?" Emerson eyed him, puzzled.
"Blood Orchid—a game-changer. It unlocks a person's hidden potential. Best part? It tweaks cell growth and could add years to your life!"
Wilson spilled the details with excitement, pulling a photo from his pocket and sliding it over.
The shot showed a massive orchid, petals gleaming like liquid crimson, almost hypnotic.
But what really grabbed Emerson was the enormous python corpse looming in the background.
Flashes from old movies he'd binged in his younger days flooded back—the plots all spun around this very flower.
Piecing together what the Blood Orchid could do, Emerson's eyes sharpened with interest.
Right now, he was hunting for rare natural wonders. That's what would kickstart his big plan; it's why he'd ditched the city for this backwoods spot.
Easier to get around, plus more time to scout for hidden gems.
From what he recalled, the Blood Orchid fit the bill perfectly.
Even better, unlike those one-of-a-kind rarities that were finicky about where they grew, this one thrived in groups and could be farmed if you cracked the code.
"What do you need from me?" Emerson skipped the yes-or-no and cut to the chase. With their bond, no need for beating around the bush.
Wilson's beefy face broke into a grin that looked more fierce than friendly.
"Emerson, I'll slot you into the team heading out soon. Just keep an eye on things for me."
"Watch the crew, got it. But what if they step out of line?"
Emerson drummed his fingers on the table, probing.
"From that point on, they're yours to handle."
Wilson caught the real question and shot back without hesitation.
He was pumped now. In his book, Emerson on board meant success was locked in.
When it came to Emerson's skills, nobody knew better than him.
Having grown up side by side, Wilson understood Emerson as well as Emerson knew himself.
Emerson came off as laid-back and forgiving, brushing off little slights without a fuss.
But mistaking that for pushover territory? Big mistake.
Wilson once witnessed what happened when a trafficking ring crossed Emerson's path. He'd overheard they were smuggling vulnerable folks—women and kids—from a nearby community.
Wilson could swear it was the only time he'd seen Emerson truly furious. That night's chaos stuck with him forever.
He'd never erase the image of slim-built Emerson emerging from the gang's hideout, gripping a makeshift spear from rebar, covered head to toe in blood.
Wilson had raced there after getting the tip and checked inside: not a soul left breathing.
In the main room, scrawled huge in blood, were words that hit hard.
Wilson later asked what they meant, and Emerson translated.
"Those who harm the innocent will face justice, no matter how far they run!"