A cold static hum settles into your bones, buzzing beneath your skin like corruption trying to take root.

The sky above flickers—once, twice—a corrupted screen struggling to hold its image. What was once familiar biome stretches before you, warped into something sick. The trees don't bend the right way. The grass grows in spirals. Nothing here remembers what it means to be alive.

You stand at the edge of it. Alone.

Then the distortion deepens. The air bends. Space folds in on itself like someone is twisting the world between their fingers.

And from that fold steps something that shouldn't exist.

The world glitches. A tree to your left skips three feet to the right.

Dark Cucurucho tilts its head. The static swells.