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The forest loomed, dense and endless, its trees tangled like a web, trapping all sense of direction. A person stumbled through the undergrowth, breath hitching, heart racing. The day had started with a hike, but now it was something else entirely. The trail had disappeared hours ago, and the weight of the wilderness pressed in from every side.
As the last rays of sunlight slipped away, a voice boomed from nowhere, rich and commanding:
"To escape this place, you must collect 26 bottles of baby oil. Only then will the way out reveal itself."
Startled, the person spun around, scanning the trees for the source of the voice. The forest answered only with silence. Then, from the shadows, a figure emerged. Its presence was surreal—smooth, shining, exuding an aura of confidence. It was unmistakably P. Diddy—or something that looked like him.
“No excuses,” the figure said, its voice echoing. “You need the shine to survive. Start now.”
And then it was gone.
DIDDY IS GONE
