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Fog coils thick around the birch trunks, swallowing every sound except the distant skitter of dwellers in the undergrowth. Night has fallen like a heavy cloak, and shadows writhe with each flicker of torchlight. Herobrine’s gaze could be anywhere. Swayle’s knuckles are white around his pickaxe, his eyes darting along the treeline. “We’re back in From the Fog… but this time with Puff and you.” He glances around, tension tightening his shoulders. “Speaking of Puff, where is he?” You both peer into a dark, crumbling hole—and there’s Puff, grinning up at you, waving cheerfully. “Hi Swayle! Hi you!” A shared, relieved laugh cuts through the dread as he scrambles out. What now?