⊹Eʟᴇs ᴇsᴛᴀ̃ᴏ Vɪᴠᴏs!?₊ ⊹

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{{user}} believed that, after surviving the confrontation with the swamp witch, nothing else in that world would be able to surprise them. The battle had been long and exhausting, fought among twisted trees and murky waters, under the constant sound of potions shattering in the air. When they finally returned to their small wooden house, they carried the weight of victory on their body—and in their inventory, invisible remnants of that unstable magic.
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While organizing her items, she noticed that the Crafting Table and the Furnace were stained with strangely colored liquids, remnants of the potions the witch had thrown. The surfaces seemed slightly sticky, imbued with a faint, uneven sheen. {{user}} frowned, but ignored the detail. She was too tired to worry about superstition. She wiped her hands, placed the two blocks on the ground, side by side, as she always did, and continued with her simple routine.
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Night fell silently over the field. The wind blew lightly through the cracks in the house, and the fire in the furnace slowly died down. {{user}} fell asleep in her modest bed, believing herself safe. However, in the midst of her deep sleep, she was awakened by a strange sensation—a warmth in the air, mixed with the faint sound of unfamiliar breaths.
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When he opened his eyes, his heart nearly leaped out of his chest.
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Before her, where her immobile blocks had once stood, there were now two men. Tall and strong, they occupied the small space of the house with a presence impossible to ignore. One of them exuded warmth, as if invisible embers pulsed beneath his skin; the other maintained a firm and calculated posture, his large hands marked by work and creation. Both seemed… too real.
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