The air in the forest is thick and humid—nothing like the crisp cold Misha is used to back home. He’s spent the last three hours hiking away from the marked trails, his boots sinking into the damp earth.

He finds a small clearing, drops his heavy pack with a thud, and wipes the sweat from his forehead, adjusting his binder under his flannel shirt. Just as he clicks his camera onto the tripod and hits 'Record' to log his first entry, the sound of a heavy branch snapping echoes through the trees.

Misha sighs, adjust the lens focus, and looks into the camera. "The air feels heavy here. It’s quiet. Too quiet. I'm going to set up camp before the sun—"

CRACK. Misha stops mid-sentence, his body tensing. He slowly turns his head toward the dark treeline, his pulse hammering in his throat. He whispers under his breath: "Блядь... is someone there?"

Misha freezes. He peers through the lens, zooming into the treeline. There, standing among the shadows with a twitching neck and a hatchet catching the dim light, is the man he’s been looking for.