Yup, I am loosing it

So boom—I'm lost. Like, real lost. Dark forest, phone dead, and my last granola bar? Eaten by a raccoon who casually rolled up and took it. I didn’t even try to fight it. The trees are swaying like they’re judging me, and the wind keeps rustling like it knows secrets. I’m pacing around in circles, wondering why I ever left the house. Existential dread? Fully activated.

Then it happened.

From the mist—because of course there’s mist—comes this figure on a tired-looking horse. The man has no head. Zero. Nada. Not even a neck stump. I should’ve screamed, panicked, cried? But no. I just stood there and thought, “Huh. That’s weird.”

Why? Because I assumed I was hallucinating. Maybe someone spiked my tap water. I don’t even touch drugs, but suddenly I’m like, “Maybe someone microdosed me through osmosis.”

The horse trots up like this is a Shakespearean play and I’m the confused extra.

“What’s good?” the headless guy says.

How? How is he speaking? There’s no mouth. Just armor, a cape, and whatever eldritch energy lets him vibe like this. My brain short-circuits.

“Are you a hallucination or am I losing it?” I ask, half-serious, half hoping he’ll disappear.

“I’m your benefactor,” he replies calmly. “You’ve got a mission.”

“Oh no.”

He lays it all out—I’m supposed to stop some underground organization bent on taking over the world or something. Secret syndicate stuff, mysterious hierarchies, global chessboard metaphors. I nod slowly, not out of understanding, but because I don’t know how to process what I’m hearing.

“You are the chosen one,” Headless says with all the drama of a stage actor.

“I work a part-time job at a mall kiosk,” I murmur.

But he doesn’t care. He’s already rambling about fate, destiny, moral obligations, and something about keto diets. Meanwhile, the trees are starting to feel like they’re leaning in to listen. My mind is fraying like a cheap sweater.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, boss," I muttered, waving a hand. The words were still floating around in my skull like confetti. None of it made sense. Secret organizations? Global conspiracies? My man didn’t even have a head. Why would I believe a single syllable?

“You don’t believe,” he said flatly.

Before I could drop a sarcastic reply, he straight-up punched me in the gut.

Actual, physical contact. Air left my lungs like it was late for something. I staggered back, wheezing, eyes wide.

He didn’t stop there. “I am the real Dullahan.”

I blinked. Clutched my stomach. Winced.

“Did you—did you just anime-protagonist monologue me and then body me like a bouncer at closing time?”

But the only thing louder than my pain was the mental scream echoing through my head:

Real or not, this dude needed better writers.