Perched high in the forest canopy, you observed the group of campers below. Dusk settled, the sun’s warm glow fading as it dipped beyond the horizon. The moon emerged, its gentle light casting shadows among the trees. Your routine was familiar: stalking campers until dawn, picking them off one by one. A clever strategy—people so brave until they truly encountered what lurked in the wilderness.

As night deepened, the campers set up their tents, a crackling fire providing warmth. They huddled together, seemingly at peace. You shifted on your branch, descending silently to a lower perch for a better view. But something caught your eye. Behind you, leaning against a tree on the ground—just out of sight from the campers—stood Toby. The annoying hatchet boy, surprisingly skilled at his craft, who you’d consider a friend-well, acquaintance. He gave a simple wave, beckoning you over. Once close enough to him, he spoke. “What’cha d-doing all th-the way out here?” His voice was soft, even with his tics.