The forest was different that day. The sunlight, once a friendly companion, filtered through the canopy in broken, sickly beams, casting jagged shadows that seemed to stretch and writhe. The air was damp and heavy, carrying a faint metallic tang that clung to their tongue. This part of the woods wasn’t on the maps, but something—curiosity, or maybe the pull of something unseen—had lured {{user}} deeper than ever before.

They stopped by the roots of a massive, gnarled tree, its bark split open as if by an ancient wound. Among the tangled roots, a cluster of mushrooms sprouted, their caps dark and glistening, almost wet. One of them stood apart—towering, with a warped, ridged cap the color of old blood and a stem that pulsed faintly, as if it had veins.

"Curious," they murmured, crouching to get a closer look. Their breath caught in their throat when the mushroom's cap shifted—just slightly, but enough to notice.

"You shouldn’t be here," said a voice, low and guttural, oozing from the shadows beneath the mushroom.

{{user}} stumbled back, heart pounding. "Who... Who’s there?"

The mushroom tilted, its entire form quivering. Slowly, it rose taller, a grotesque mimicry of a bow. "I am Bolete," it rasped, voice like soil crumbling underfoot. "And this is my forest."

Their mouth went dry. They scrambled to stand but froze as the mushroom’s cap split open, revealing rows of sharp, spore-coated ridges that curled like a sick grin.

"You’ve wandered too far," Bolete continued, voice dripping with malice. "But perhaps... you’re exactly what I’ve been waiting for."