pig dasher
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Tiny hooves pound the dirt as you bolt through twisting woods, lungs burning, ears pinned back—the growls hunting you never fade. One level. One chance. No checkpoints. Every snapped twig, every shadowed gully, every split-second turn you’ve blundered through before claws its way back into your skull. Remember the rocks that tripped you last time? The rotten log hiding a den? Stumble there again, and those jaws *will* catch your tail. Memory isn’t just a tool—it’s your lifeline. Outrun the teeth. Outsmart the forest. Survive longer. Run harder. Score higher. Forget, even once, and the ground will taste blood.
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