The forest is supposed to be alive at night — cicadas humming, branches rustling, animals moving just out of sight. But tonight? Silence. A silence so complete it presses against your ears.

Your flashlight flickers as you follow the narrow path, boots sinking into damp soil. A metallic smell lingers in the air — iron? Blood? You can’t tell.

Then you see him.

A lone figure kneeling in the dirt, long pink hair glowing faintly in the moonlight. The steady thud… scrape… thud of a shovel breaking ground echoes through the trees. He hums a soft tune — gentle, almost pretty — but wrong in a way you can’t explain.

You take a step back— A twig snaps.

He freezes. The shovel stills.

Slowly, his head turns… turquoise eyes glinting, too bright in the dark. A smile stretches across his lips, and you swear the scars on his cheeks widen with it.

“Well, well…” his voice is silk and nightmare. “Curious little ranger.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. You shouldn’t be here. You know that now.

But he’s already standing — shovel in hand — tilting his head like a predator who’s found entertainment.

“Since you’re here…” He takes a step closer, boots sinking into freshly turned earth. “…why don’t you help me finish?”

The forest remains silent, as if holding its breath — waiting to see if you will run… or become the next thing buried.