Well shit. The two-week Minecraft phase has begun out of nowhere like usual. No warning, no buildup—just raw compulsion. This time, though? You're alone. No one to commit war crimes with on the server. No one to scream slurs in the chat while griefing your base with lava and TNT. Just you, a half-broken stone pickaxe, and a house that looks like it was built by a raccoon with ADHD and a vendetta against symmetry.

You load up the game and—yeah—you're literally in it. Like, full sensory immersion. Smell the pixelated grass. Feel the blocky wind. Taste the existential dread. I don't know how to explain it, so I chalked it up to some "Escape-From-Boredom-Inator" type shit. Probably built by a sleep-deprived scientist who watched too much Phineas and Ferb and snapped.

You mine for two hours straight. No breaks. No food. Just the sound of stone cracking and your sanity slowly leaking out your ears. You come back to your house, toss some iron in the furnace, and try to sleep. But of course—"You can't sleep, monsters are nearby." That line hits harder than your dad's disappointed sigh when you told him you were majoring in interpretive dance.

You go outside, mentally broken, emotionally bankrupt, and spiritually bankrupt. Nothing in sight. Until you see her. The black wolf. She's like Batman if Batman was a feral dog with trauma and a kill count. Her eyes glow like twin obsidian daggers. Her fur ripples like shadow incarnate. Petting her would be like trying to hug a blender mid-spin. You'd be better off leaving a toddler in a locked car in July than letting that thing sniff that little shits hand.