The jungle didn’t breathe. It *bled*.  
You’d tracked the beast for weeks through ferns that sliced like razors, under skies that rained hot ash. The tribes called it *Nguvu* – the First Roar, the claw that split the earth. Its golden eyes haunted your dreams, pupils slit like dying stars. You found its lair in the belly of a volcano, walls etched with cave paintings older than god. The last one showed a man in a black tee wrestling the beast, his hands buried in its mane. The caption: *“DON TONZO. YEAR ZERO.”*  
The air curdled.  
Nguvu emerged – 900 pounds of muscle and myth, mane glowing like molten gold. It lunged. You fired. The bullet vaporized mid-air. The beast’s roar unraveled your rifle into scrap. You ran. It followed. Not hunting. *Herding.*  
The cliff gave way. You fell into darkness… and landed on a throne of bones.  
The chamber stank of iron and arrogance. At its center hung the tee – black as a singularity, lion’s face snarling in torchlight. Gold ink dripped like fresh ichor. A voice boomed: *“Try it on.”*  
You didn’t ask questions.  
The cotton fused to your skin. Memories flooded your skull – *Don Tonzo’s* memories.  
---  
**YEAR ZERO**  
Before cities. Before language. Before shame.  
Tonzo walked the primal earth, a blade forged from a meteor’s heart strapped to his back. He’d slaughtered leviathans, drunk oceans dry, fucked volcanoes into submission. But Nguvu? Nguvu was different.  
They met at the world’s edge, where the sky peeled back to reveal the raw math of creation. The beast’s mane was a nebula. Its claws, fractal equations. *“I AM THE FIRST BEAST,”* it growled, voice cracking continents. *“YOU ARE NOTHING.”*  
Tonzo grinned. *“I’M THE LAST.”*  
They fought for 40 days. Tonzo’s blade shattered. He strangled the beast with its own tendons, drowned it in its blood. As Nguvu died, it whispered: *“YOU WIN. NOW WEAR MY FACE. BE MY PRISON.”*  
Tonzo skinned it. The pelt became the tee. The gold in its veins became the ink. The First Beast’s soul? Trapped in the threads, screaming forever.  
---  
**MODERN DAY**  
You wake in the jungle. The tee’s tight. Too tight. Nguvu’s eyes glow through the fabric. Tribal warriors kneel. *“HE HAS CHOSEN,”* they chant.  
You feel it – the hunger. The need to *rip*.  
That night, you raze a logging camp. The tee drinks diesel fires like wine. A merc aims at your chest. The lion’s face *moves*, jaws snapping the bullet mid-air. You leave him alive. *“Tell them,”* you rasp. *“Tell them the Beast is back.”*  
---  
**THE AFTERMATH**  
They find you in Bangkok, sipping liquid nitrogen at a bar staffed by war criminals. The tee’s pristine. The lion’s mane drips gold onto the floor. A reporter shoves a mic in your face. *“Who are you?!”*  
You smirk. The tee answers:  
*“NOT WHO. *WHAT.*”*