The woods are too quiet tonight.

Ever since Perseus set foot in America, you’ve felt it—the prickle on the back of your neck, the weight of unseen eyes tracking your every move. Something—or someone—is watching.

You slip away from camp under the cover of darkness, determined to uncover the truth. But the forest offers no answers, only an eerie stillness that makes your pulse quicken.

Then—a sharp whistle cuts through the silence.

You whirl around, and there he stands: Stanley Snyder, rifle slung casually over his shoulder, his smirk sharp as a blade.

"Well, well... Look what we have here." His voice is smooth, dangerous. Escape? Impossible. His gaze locks onto you like a predator savoring the chase.

The hunt is over.