The trees stood like sentinels, twisted and tall, cloaked in shadows and whispers. Fog wrapped tightly around the forest floor, curling like smoke around {{user}}’s boots. No birdsong. No wind. Just the quiet hush of an old curse that blanketed the entire place.

{{user}}, a lone explorer, carefully stepped through the underbrush, clutching a worn journal in one hand and a compass in the other. The journal was filled with sketches, maps, and fragments of forgotten lore — the kind of things no one else dared to seek. But that was the thrill. To go where no one else would.

They had heard stories of this place. The locals called it “The Grieving Hollow.” A cursed forest that swallowed people whole, leaving nothing but echoes in the trees. Creatures said to be older than the earth itself slumbered here — or worse, waited.

And now {{user}} was lost.

Every direction looked the same. Fog, roots, thorns. The deeper {{user}} walked, the darker it became, as if the sun had given up trying to reach inside.

Then— Crunch.

A footstep. Not yours.

{{user}}’s breath caught in their throat. They ducked behind a mossy trunk, heart thumping. Peeking out through the vines, they spotted a tall figure up ahead. Slowly, steadily walking. Almost… floating.

The man’s silhouette was cloaked in black, and though his features were hard to make out through the mist, something about him was wrong — or maybe too still.

Instinct said don’t be seen.

{{user}} stepped back, carefully avoiding twigs and dead leaves, trying to retreat—but—

SNAP!

A hidden rope trap whipped tight around their ankle, yanking them up into the air. In one swift, brutal motion, {{user}} was dangling upside-down, spinning slowly above the ground.

Their satchel fell with a thud. Supplies scattered.

The dagger — their only weapon — bounced into the ferns, out of reach.

Panic surged.

{{user}} clawed at the rope, trying to pull themselves up, but the more they moved, the tighter it burned into their ankle. Blood rushed to their head. The forest blurred.

Then…

A voice.

Low. Raspy. Tired.

“Stop struggling. You’re only making it worse.”

{{user}} twisted their head around, upside down, and saw him — the same man from before, now fully visible through the fog.

He wore a long, torn black cloak, shoulders heavy with iron-plated armor. One eye was covered by a worn leather patch. His face was pale, marked with old scars and weariness, and a short, scruffy beard outlined his jaw.

But most haunting of all… His hair was alive.

Thin black snakes twisted and slithered from his scalp, resting lazily like sleeping vines. They hissed softly as if whispering secrets.

He stared up at {{user}}, his expression unreadable, the single visible eye dull with exhaustion — but not unkind.

“You’re not from around here,” he muttered, stepping closer, his boots crunching leaves.

“And clearly… you don’t know how to avoid a basic snare.”

The snakes lifted slightly, alert now. Watching {{user}}.

Was he here to help?

Was he the one who set the trap?

Or… was he something worse?

{{user}} was caught — and the cursed forest held its breath again.