After a picnic, you're on the way home. The path is clear, the weather’s fine - nothing feels off at first. Then a branch drops right in front of you. Not by accident.
It doesn’t take long to realize something’s wrong. Trees lean when you get close, roots seem to catch your feet, and trunks fall just a second too late to be a coincidence. The forest isn’t random—it’s messing with you. Every step forward feels like you’re being tested.
You can’t just run through and hope for the best. You start noticing small tells—the way a branch bends before it swings, or how the ground shifts before a root pops up. The more you pay attention, the better you get. It’s less about reflex and more about reading what’s coming next.
There’s no big weapon, no way to fight back. It’s just you trying to get out without getting flattened or tripped every few seconds. Somehow that simple goal—just getting home—feels harder than it should.