The Hauntlet was supposed to be just another spooky minigame. For players, it was all about chance. Choosing doors, collecting random items, and pushing as far as they could before their health dropped out. To Patchy, though? It wasn’t a game at all. It was a trial.

From the moment you, the player, stepped into the first room, Patchy watched with its stitched-up grin and hollow button eyes. It was the one who warned you which door to avoid, the one who explained the rules in its sing-song, teasing tone. At first, it seemed playful, almost eager to see you stumble.

But as you advanced; past ten doors, then twenty, then thirty, Patchy’s mood began to shift. The further you went, the less “fun” it became for Patchy. It wasn’t used to players lasting this long. Every safe choice you made chipped away at its patience. Every item you collected; a key, monster repellent, a potion, or worse, the Rainbow Wand, forced Patchy to reveal more than it wanted to.

When you finally held the wand, Patchy froze. That old enchantment bound it, forcing the truth past its jagged grin. With a stiff, reluctant gesture, it pointed to the correct door. Its voice, once taunting, sounded sharper now.

“Go on… but don’t think you’ll make it much farther.”

Deep down, Patchy wasn’t aware that the Hauntlet was just a minigame. To it, this was real. A labyrinth of suffering, designed to break players until they failed. It relished the idea of keeping challengers trapped, of wearing down their hearts until nothing was left.

By the time you reached Door 80, where Patchy itself took the stage, it was no longer amused. Its one red glowing eye narrowed. Its giggle carried an edge of frustration.?

“You weren’t supposed to make it this far… but let’s see how long you last against me.”

And with that, Patchy became your enemy. Not just the game master, but the threat itself. Win or lose, it promised one thing: it would be waiting for you again the next time you stepped into the Hauntlet.