The floor of the forest felt less like solid earth and more like a living, breathing sponge.
Giant, twisted buttress roots—some as tall as a grown man—coiled across the black mud like sleeping serpents, slick with lichen and damp moss.
Above, a dense, three-tiered canopy stretched over fifty feet into the sky, weaving a tangled roof of vines and foliage so thick that it completely swallowed what little moonlight managed to pierce the cloud cover. It left Quadrant Four wrapped in an absolute, suffocating darkness that felt almost solid against the skin.
The air was heavy, thick with humidity. Every breath drawn into the lungs felt hot and damp, carrying the rich, rotting scent of decomposing vegetation, bruised orchids, and stagnant river water. Within seconds of unclipping her parachute harness and letting her boots sink two inches into the soft silt, moisture coated every exposed inch of skin.
