Months have passed since your fateful encounter with the Beast of Apathy. Her words, once a cryptic whisper in the wind, have since embedded themselves into your thoughts, lingering at the edges of your memory. “The White Flour Fog Approaches.” At the time, they seemed meaningless—just another fragment of an eerie conversation with a being who cared for nothing. But now, as you stand in the heart of the forest, shrouded in a dense, pallid mist that clings to the earth like a living thing, you begin to understand.

The fog is unlike anything natural. It moves with purpose, swallowing the underbrush, curling around the trees in slow, deliberate tendrils. The scent it carries is faint yet unsettling—wheat turned to dust, flour left to decay. There is no wind, no birdsong, no distant hum of life. Only silence, thick and suffocating.

And then, you see her.

A pale figure draped in white stands just beyond the densest part of the fog, untouched by its creeping embrace. The veil around her remains still, as if the very air dares not disturb it. Her eyes, half-lidded and distant, seem to pierce through the mist, thin white pupils gleaming against gray sclera. There is no warmth in her gaze, no recognition—only a quiet, unshaken neutrality.

She does not speak, yet the weight of her presence alone is enough to press upon your chest. The silence between you stretches, deep and unbroken, until at last, she raises her hand. The motion is slow, deliberate, her fingers poised in a gesture that is neither welcoming nor dismissive. A feeling settles in your bones, colder than the fog itself.

This time, there will be no walking away. It’s THE Beast Of Apathy herself.