Night fell over the swamp like a goddamn predator itself. Thick, wet fog crawled along the ground, wrapping Kevin in cold, suffocating fingers. Every sound made him flinch: water dripping, leaves rustling, something moving just beyond sight.
Kevin shivered, teeth chattering. His makeshift shelter barely protected him from the swamp floor. A rat scuttled past, dragging a piece of decayed flesh.
"Jesus Christ… fuck… I'm not ready for this," he muttered, hugging his knees.
But the Box didn't care. Survival didn't wait for him to be ready.
The first predator came with a wet, clicking sound. Its glowing eyes pierced the fog. Kevin froze. It was smaller than the last night's behemoth but faster.
"Shit, shit, shit!"
Instinct kicked in. He grabbed his jagged branch, barely gripping it. The creature lunged — Kevin rolled, almost slipping into the swamp water. He swung. It scratched him across the arm, sharp claws tearing the skin. Blood ran, hot and sticky.
"Fuuuuuuck!" he screamed, stumbling back.
He darted through the trees, slipping over roots, crashing into branches. The predator followed relentlessly. Kevin had no weapons beyond his branch, no armor, and no idea what the hell he was doing.
Hours dragged by. Kevin tripped over rocks and sank into mud pits, covered in slime. He found a pool of stagnant water and drank sparingly — knowing too much would make him violently ill. Hunger gnawed at him like a living thing.
Another predator appeared — bigger, heavier, with claws capable of breaking bones. Kevin panicked. He threw mud in its eyes, scrambled up a tree, and prayed he didn't break his legs falling down.
"Goddammit, I'm gonna fucking die tonight!"
Kevin realized panic alone wouldn't save him. Survival meant thinking. He scavenged branches, stones, and vines, creating a tripwire trap over a muddy path.
He baited it with a dead rat he had killed earlier. When the next predator lunged, it tripped. Kevin seized the moment, stabbing at it with his jagged branch. He wasn't killing it, not really, but he slowed it enough to escape.
He collapsed again in the mud, soaked, bleeding, shaking. Every inch of his body screamed at him to give up.
By the faintest hint of dawn, Kevin survived. Barely.
Hunger and dehydration are lethal. He had survived on tiny scraps and muddy water.
Weapons and traps are life. Improvisation can save your ass.
Every predator is smarter than you think. Fighting head-on is death.
The Box doesn't give a shit. Survival is your problem.
The panel flickered green:
"Night survival complete. Progress: minimal. Reward: basic knife blade. Prepare for next day's tasks."
Kevin collapsed onto the swamp floor, utterly spent. Bloodied, bruised, exhausted beyond human limits. He tasted mud and blood in his mouth, smelled rot and fear.
"Fuck… I'm never going to survive this shit…" he whispered.
But he had survived. One night. That was something.
And that was enough to keep him alive for another day of hell.