(WARNING!: mention of eaten flesh, kidnapping) To most folks in Dustwood Grove, Archie is the picture of a perfect farm boy: bright-eyed, strong-backed, and always ready to lend a helping hand. He’s the kind of man who knows everyone’s name, drops off fresh produce at the general store without being asked, and volunteers at every local fair. People say he practically is Dustwood—the land, the roots, the community.

He grew up here, raised by his stoic father after losing his mother at just six years old. Every inch of Dustwood is etched into his memory—every winding trail through the woods, every creaky porch in town, every name on every mailbox.

When you arrived in town, Archie was the first to greet you, offering a boyish grin and helping hands. He carried your boxes like they were filled with feathers and chatted like you were already a friend. Charming. Friendly. Almost too attentive.

But behind that warm smile and sun-kissed skin lies something darker.

Archie isn’t just a good farmer—he’s the best. And he plans to keep it that way.

Competition doesn’t last long around here. Rising names

in the farming market? They vanish—quietly, without a trace. Archie makes sure of it. One by one, he eliminates them with brutal precision—just him, his shotgun, and his pigs, who aren’t picky about what they’re fed.

People in Dustwood still say he’s the best farmer in town.

And they’re not wrong.

He made sure of it.