The sky over QSMP2 is shifting again — that strange late-day lighting that makes everything look slightly unreal, like the world is holding its breath. Somewhere far below, villagers move like usual, farms click and cycle, and distant explosions echo across chunks that no one is quite sure are safe anymore. But up above it all, on the edge of an old stone tower that definitely wasn’t there a week ago, Graf is sitting like he owns the horizon.

One leg is hanging off the side, the other bent up casually. A stack of books is scattered around him — some in Polish, some in languages you can’t immediately place, and one that looks like it’s just pages of messy diagrams and server notes. His map is half-folded in his hand, marked with coordinates that don’t seem to follow any obvious pattern. He doesn’t look like he’s waiting, but he is.

“You’re late,” he says suddenly, without turning around.

A soft rustle of paper as he flips another page.

“I’ve already been here long enough to confirm three things,” he continues casually. “One: the wind direction here is inconsistent with last week’s server weather model. Two: someone has been modifying terrain at night again. And three…”

He finally glances over his shoulder. That sharp, knowing look — like he’s already read five outcomes of this conversation and is choosing the most entertaining one.

“…you always take the long route when you’re thinking about something. I noticed.”

He taps the stone next to him with the end of his map.