The voices were getting closer, accompanied by the sound of people moving through the undergrowth with the kind of casual confidence that suggested they were familiar with this terrain. I had about thirty seconds to make a decision about how to handle what was about to become a very awkward social situation.

Three people emerged from the tree line, all wearing casual outdoor clothing that had seen significant use. They looked like locals who spent considerable time in the forest, with the kind of weathered appearance that came from regular exposure to the elements. Two men and one woman, probably in their thirties or forties, all scanning the area with obvious concern.

"Hey!" one of the men called out when he spotted me. "Have you seen a jaguar around here?"

My brain immediately began calculating the optimal response to this question. The truthful answer – that yes, I had just fought their pet jaguar and sent it limping away with a temporarily paralyzed leg and wounded pride – seemed unlikely to go over well. The diplomatic answer would involve acknowledging the encounter while downplaying my role in the animal's current condition.

But what came out of my mouth was the instinctive response of someone who desperately wanted to avoid an uncomfortable conversation.

"What jaguar?" I said, trying to sound confused and innocent.

Before I could even finish the sentence, a scream erupted from deeper in the jungle.

"Lisa! Oh my god, Lisa!"

The three people in front of me immediately took off running toward the voice, leaving me standing there with the sinking realization that my attempt at feigning ignorance had lasted approximately three seconds before being completely undermined by circumstances.

I followed reluctantly, already knowing what I was going to find.

A fourth person – a younger woman who looked like she might be in her twenties – emerged from the jungle carrying Lisa in her arms with the kind of strained effort that came from trying to support a two-hundred-pound injured animal. The jaguar was conscious but clearly in pain, favoring the shoulder where I had delivered that Precision Strike and moving the temporarily paralyzed leg with obvious difficulty.

"Who did this to Lisa?" the woman demanded, her voice a mixture of fury and distress as she carefully set the jaguar down on a relatively clear patch of ground.

Lisa immediately turned her head toward me, her eyes locking onto my face with the kind of recognition that only comes from recent combat experience. The jaguar's ears went back and she made a low sound that was somewhere between a growl and a whimper, her entire body language communicating that she remembered exactly who had beaten her and was not interested in a rematch.

The reaction was instant and damning.

All four people turned to look at me with expressions that ranged from shocked disbelief to outright rage. The mathematical certainty that I was responsible for Lisa's condition was written across their faces as clearly as if I had been holding a signed confession.

"You did this?" one of the men said, his voice rising with anger. "You attacked Lisa?"

"She attacked me first!" I shot back, feeling defensive about being cast as the aggressor when I had simply defended myself against what I had reasonably believed to be a wild predator. "I was working on environmental restoration and she jumped out of a tree at me!"

"Liar!" the woman who had been carrying Lisa shouted. "If a jaguar really attacked you, you'd be dead or seriously injured! Look at you – you don't have a scratch on you!"

I looked down at my hand where Lisa's claw had opened the cut across my palm, but Physical Recovery Efficiency had already closed the wound to the point where it was barely visible. Event then, to anyone without knowledge of my skills, I should not just have a claw mark on my hand. I had just fought an apex predator and for me to come even relatively unharmed would be insane to think about.

"She did attack me," I insisted, though I was beginning to realize how weak my position appeared. "I just... defended myself effectively."

"Defended yourself?" another man said with obvious skepticism. "Against a jaguar? With what, kung fu and positive thinking?"

The truth – that yes, I had defended myself against a jaguar using combat abilities and perfect physical conditioning that made me stronger and faster than a large predator – seemed unlikely to make this situation any better.

"Lisa wouldn't attack someone unprovoked," the younger woman said, kneeling beside the injured jaguar and examining her shoulder with obvious expertise. "She's been domesticated since she was a cub. She's gentle and friendly unless someone threatens her first."

"She literally jumped at me from a tree!" I protested, though even as I said it I was beginning to wonder if the jaguar's initial behavior had been aggressive or just overly enthusiastic greeting behavior that I had misinterpreted through the lens of Instinct's threat detection.

"You probably scared her by being in her territory," one of the men said accusingly. "And then when she approached to investigate, you attacked her!"

"That's not what happened!"

"Then explain how you're completely fine while our Lisa has a paralyzed leg and an injured shoulder!"

I opened my mouth to respond, but honestly couldn't come up with an explanation that wouldn't reveal capabilities that would raise even more questions. How was I supposed to explain that I was enhanced to the point where defeating a jaguar in hand-to-hand combat was difficult but achievable? That my Pain Resistance and healing abilities made me effectively immune to the kinds of injuries that would incapacitate normal humans?

"I told you, she attacked first and I defended myself," I repeated, falling back on the basic truth even though it clearly wasn't convincing anyone.

The argument continued for what felt like hours but was probably only ten minutes, with accusations and counter-accusations flying back and forth while Lisa lay on the ground looking thoroughly miserable about the entire situation. The people were increasingly angry about their injured pet, while I was increasingly frustrated about being portrayed as the villain when I had genuinely been defending myself against what I had every reason to believe was a dangerous wild animal.

We were so absorbed in the argument that none of us initially noticed the approach of additional people until a voice cut through our shouting with the kind of authority that demanded immediate attention.

"Where the hell are the rest of you?"

The question came from somewhere behind the group, carrying an edge of menace that made everyone go instantly quiet. The four people who had been arguing with me exchanged glances that suggested they recognized the voice and weren't happy about its owner's arrival.

An older-sounding man emerged from the jungle, though "older" was a relative term – he was probably in his late forties or early fifties, but his physical condition suggested someone who maintained peak fitness through regular violence rather than gym memberships. His body was covered in tattoos that I recognized immediately as the kind of gang markings that indicated affiliation with organized criminal operations.

He looked around at the assembled group with obvious irritation, his eyes taking in the injured jaguar, the four locals, and finally settling on me with the kind of calculating assessment that predators used when evaluating threats.

"We're late," he said, his voice carrying the flat affect of someone who didn't waste energy on emotions when giving orders. "Get moving."

Then I noticed the AK-47 casually held in his right hand, the weapon positioned with the kind of practiced ease that suggested he was comfortable using it and had no qualms about doing so if the situation required.

"Who the hell is this?" he asked, gesturing toward me with the rifle in a way that managed to be both casual and deeply threatening.

The four locals went silent, their previous anger at me apparently forgotten in the face of this new and significantly more dangerous presence. The dynamics of the situation had shifted dramatically, and I was beginning to understand that I had stumbled into something far more complicated than a simple case of mistaken identity with a pet jaguar.

Instinct was providing urgent warnings about the level of threat represented by the tattooed man, while Deduction was processing the various contextual clues and arriving at an uncomfortable conclusion about exactly what kind of operation I had inadvertently discovered in the middle of Cristalino State Park.

I was face to face with a gang member, possibly multiple gang members, in a remote area where my work crew and security detail were too far away to provide immediate assistance. The man with the AK-47 was looking at me with the kind of professional assessment that suggested he was already calculating whether I represented a problem that needed to be eliminated or just an inconvenient witness who could be intimidated into silence.

This was not how I had expected my environmental restoration project to develop.

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