Jafar

I’ve been walking for what feels like hours, the sun high above me, beating down on the back of my neck. It’s hot— way too hot. I wipe a bead of sweat off my brow, squinting against the glare. Parrot flutters up onto my shoulder, squawking in my ear like he’s got something important to say.

“Alright, Parrot,” I mutter, giving him a gentle pat. “I get it. You’re bored too.”

He’s not exactly great for conversation, but it’s better than nothing. I scratch at the back of my head, feeling the prick of unease settle in my gut. It’s the same feeling I’ve had for days now, like there’s something just outside my field of vision, watching.

I push the thought away and keep walking, my feet crunching over the dry grass. The forest stretches out around me, a sea of green and brown, broken only by the occasional splash of colour from wildflowers. It’s peaceful, almost too peaceful. No mobs, no sounds except for the rustle of leaves and the chirping of Parrot.

Then I spot it—something out of place. A line of dirt, dug straight into the ground. I stop short, frowning. It’s not natural, not the way the terrain usually generates. I crouch down, running a hand along the edge. Freshly dug, like someone was trying to plant something but didn’t get the chance to finish.

“What the hell?” I mutter, straightening up. Parrot squawks again, like he’s trying to agree with me.

I keep walking, faster now, scanning the ground as I go. There—another patch of dirt, and next to it, a crafting table. It’s set up perfectly, with a furnace beside it and a stack of logs. I walk up to it, running my fingers over the wood. There’s no mistaking it—this wasn’t generated by the game. This was placed here by someone.

“Is there someone else here?” I whisper, more to myself than to Parrot. He flaps his wings, squawking in response.

I feel a rush of excitement, mixed with a flicker of unease. It doesn’t make sense. I’ve been alone this whole time, wandering through empty biomes. I would have seen someone by now, or at least found signs of another player’s base. But this... this is different. It’s like they’ve been moving through the forest, setting up little stations as they go.

I keep moving, following the trail. I’m half-jogging now, my heart pounding in my chest. I want to see where it leads, who’s behind all this. It’s not just a random player. It feels deliberate, like they’re leaving a breadcrumb trail for me to follow.

Then I see it—up ahead, through the trees. The unmistakable shape of a house. It’s not much, just a small cabin, but it’s definitely man-made. The walls are oak planks, the roof a mix of cobblestone and slabs. Smoke drifts lazily from a chimney, and the door is slightly ajar, like it’s inviting me in.

I stop, crouching low in the bushes. Parrot flutters down beside me, tilting his head as if he’s just as curious as I am. I hold my breath, listening. There’s no movement, no sound except for the crackle of a campfire inside.

“Who the hell built this?” I whisper, feeling a shiver of excitement run down my spine. It’s the first real sign I’ve had that I’m not alone, that there’s someone else out here. But who? And why haven’t they made themselves known?

I stay crouched there for a moment longer, debating whether I should go in or wait it out. It could be a trap, or it could just be another player who got stuck here like I did. Either way, I’m not leaving until I find out.

I give Parrot a gentle nudge, signalling for him to stay quiet. He tilts his head, fluffing up his feathers, but thankfully doesn’t make a sound. I take a deep breath, steadying myself. Whatever this is, I need to know.

I step out of the bushes, making my way slowly towards the cabin, my heart thudding in my chest. I half expect someone to burst out, shouting, but there’s nothing. Just the quiet crackle of the fire and the smell of cooked meat wafting out.

I inch closer, peering through the crack in the door. Inside, it’s small but well-organised. There’s a crafting table against one wall, a couple of chests stacked in the corner, and a bed made of red wool tucked under the window. It looks... lived in. Comfortable, even.

“Hello?” I call out, my voice echoing through the small space.

Nothing.

I push the door open a little wider, stepping inside. It’s warm, the fire casting a golden glow over everything. I glance around, half expecting to see someone hiding in the shadows, but it’s empty.

“Alright, whoever you are,” I mutter, looking around. “This is your chance to come out.”

Still nothing. It’s like the place has been abandoned, but there’s a fresh loaf of bread on the table, still steaming.

I run my hand over the rough wooden surface, feeling the warmth from the fire seep into my fingers. “Whoever you are,” I murmur, “you’ve got a serious eye for detail.”

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

I can’t help the small flicker of hope that sparks in my chest. Maybe this is it. Maybe I’ve found someone who gets it—the grind, the dedication, the beauty of a well-made base. I picture some guy, maybe a little older than me, hunched over a crafting table, meticulously planning out redstone circuits like it’s a work of art. The kind of person who wouldn’t just slap a bunch of blocks together and call it a house.

“Alright, mystery builder,” I say, grinning to myself. “Let’s see what you’re about.”

I open the first chest, expecting the usual—a mess of random materials. But no, it’s all organised: rows of iron ingots, neatly stacked coal, a few golden apples lined up in perfect symmetry. I feel a pang of admiration. This isn’t just efficiency; it’s passion. It’s the kind of meticulous care that I take with my own builds.

My grin widens as I move to the second chest, half expecting to find a stash of redstone contraptions or maybe a collection of enchanted gear. “You’ve got good taste, I’ll give you that,” I mutter, sifting through the items.

I can already picture it: meeting this guy, talking shop for hours about automating farms and building contraptions that would make any player jealous. Maybe he’s as competitive as I am—someone who would appreciate a little friendly rivalry. The idea of finally having a partner-in-crime here is almost intoxicating.

But then, a thought hits me, and the smile falters. What if it’s not a guy? What if it’s some builder obsessed with aesthetics, who cares more about how things look than how they work? I’ve seen enough “cottagecore” nonsense to know the type—someone who makes everything look pretty but couldn’t wire a basic piston door to save their life.

I scowl at the thought, slamming the chest shut. The place is almost too tidy, too curated. Maybe I’m reading it wrong. Maybe whoever built this cares more about the surface-level stuff, the vibe, than the real technical side of things. “Great,” I mutter. “Watch it be someone who only knows how to build flower pots and cottages.”

I take another look around, feeling my excitement wane slightly. The fireplace is beautifully crafted, with a perfect stone chimney, and there’s a painting hung on the wall—a simple landscape, but it’s placed with care. It’s the kind of thing I’d never bother with. It’s practical, sure, but there’s a softness to it. A kind of domestic comfort that makes me uneasy.

“Alright, I’m getting vibes here,” I say out loud, mostly to Parrot. He tilts his head at me, blinking. “I’m calling it now. Whoever built this is the type who spends more time decorating than mining. Probably doesn’t even know what a comparator is.”

I step back outside, shutting the door behind me. The sun’s lower in the sky now, casting a long shadow across the clearing. I take a deep breath, the cool evening air filling my lungs. I should feel relieved—excited even—but instead, there’s a knot of annoyance in my chest.

“Of course,” I mutter to myself. “The one person I might run into, and it’s probably someone who cares more about aesthetics than actual gameplay.”

Parrot squawks in my ear, almost like he’s laughing at me. “Yeah, yeah,” I say, giving him a playful nudge. “Laugh it up, buddy.”

The sun dips below the treeline, casting the forest in long, creeping shadows. I can feel the night settling in, the temperature dropping with it. I huff out a breath, crouching behind a thick tree trunk. The cabin’s front door is still closed, the faint glow from the fire inside flickering against the window. Whoever built this place, they’ve got to show up eventually. No one leaves fresh bread sitting on the table like that unless they’re planning to come back soon.

I adjust my position, glancing up at Parrot, who’s perched on a low branch, his head cocked to the side like he’s judging me. “What?” I whisper, keeping my voice low. “This is a perfectly normal stakeout, alright?”

He fluffs up his feathers, turning his back on me with a dismissive squawk. I roll my eyes, leaning back against the tree. The forest is eerily quiet, only the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. I can feel my heartbeat slowing, matching the rhythm of the night around me. I’ve waited out tougher spots than this in games before. Patience is key.

The minutes tick by, the forest growing darker. I catch myself yawning, stretching my neck to keep from getting stiff. “Come on,” I mutter under my breath. “Show yourself already.”

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Colette

The forest feels colder than usual tonight, the chill seeping through my green shirt. I’m half-limping, half-dragging myself along the path back to the cabin, wincing every time my foot catches on a root. The skeleton I ran into earlier left me with half a health bar, and I’m out of food. Great. Just great.

All I want is to collapse onto my bed and eat the last of that bread before I pass out for the night. I round the corner, spotting the warm glow of the cabin through the trees. Relief washes over me, but it’s short-lived. There’s something crouched outside the door, half-hidden behind the tree.

For a split second, my heart leaps. That default Steve skin. It’s Ivan. He came back. But then my relief twists into confusion, then anger. What the hell is he doing, skulking around my cabin like some creepy stalker? And why is he hiding from me?

My hands tighten around the hilt of my sword as I creep closer, every muscle in my body tensed. “Of course,” I mutter to myself, feeling the familiar surge of irritation bubbling up. “Typical man, just like all the rest. Can’t say anything to my face, just lurking around like some kind of weirdo.”

I take a deep breath, forcing a smirk onto my lips. Fine. If he wants to play this game, I’ll give him a little scare of his own. I inch closer, careful not to make a sound, raising the sword above my head. I can’t wait to see the look on his face when he realises he’s been caught.

I’m just a few feet away when he moves. Faster than I can react, he spins around, grabbing my wrist with one hand and slamming me to the ground. The air rushes out of my lungs in a painful gasp, my sword clattering uselessly to the side. I feel the impact reverberate through my whole body, and a sharp, searing pain shoots up my spine.

My health bar plummets, all but half of a single heart draining away in an instant. I barely manage a wheezing breath before my vision blurs at the edges. “Wha—” I try to speak, but the words die in my throat.

The figure looms over me, iron armour glinting in the moonlight. It’s not Ivan. This Steve moves like me.

“Who the hell are you?” I manage to choke out, but my voice is weak, fading fast.

The last thing I see before everything goes black is his expression—surprised, but not remorseful.