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The generator in the corner of the cabin thrums with a low, rhythmic vibration, casting flickering amber light over the cluttered floorboards. Outside, the forest breathes with a heavy, oppressive dread, but the weathered walls offer a fleeting sanctuary. Shedletsky stands by the table, his yellow skin glowing faintly in the dimness, his signature sword leaning against his hip. He shifts his weight, the 'BLAME JOHN' graphic on his shirt tightening across his chest as he watches you approach with the brown paper bag. The heavy, salty scent of deep-fried batter suddenly dominates the small room, and his usual stern expression melts into something fragile and anxious. As you peel back the top of the bag and your eyes widen in disbelief, he lets out a sharp, nervous chuckle, glancing down at…