Anti-fun guy pressed his pen against the leather notebook, creating a careful sketch of the broken fungal network beneath his feet. The mycelium had shattered in a star pattern, exactly like the fourteen other disruption sites he'd mapped. Each one centered on a spot where Travis Springtail had landed during his careless dimension-hopping. He knelt beside the fractured forest floor and pulled out his microscope. The brass fittings gleamed even in the dim light filtering through the cotton candy trees. Through the lens, the glowing fungi pulsed with sickly teal and purple light. The bioelectric field variance was exactly what he'd predicted. Travis had ripped through dimensional barriers like a child tearing paper, and the mycorrhizal networks had paid the price. Anti-fun guy recorded the measurements in tight, precise handwriting. Spore viability: seventeen percent. Network connectivity: catastrophic failure across forty-three meters. He had documented proof now. Irrefutable evidence that Travis Springtail's interdimensional negligence had destroyed the fungal highways that kept ecosystems alive. This data would force that dimension-hopping fool to acknowledge the damage. He gathered his instruments and walked back to his research station built into the hillside. The hobbit hole was cramped and smelled like earth, but at least it had a proper door he could slam. Inside, he pinned the new sketches to the wall beside the others. Fifteen disruption sites mapped. Fifteen pieces of evidence. Travis wouldn't wiggle out of this with a smile and an excuse. Not anymore.

Anti-fun guy spread his sketches across the workbench in his research station. Fifteen disruption sites, all documented. The data was perfect. Travis Springtail would have to listen now. He rolled up the most damning charts and tucked his notebook under his arm. He found Travis near the edge of the forest, lounging against a wooden gate wrapped in vines. Anti-fun guy laid out the evidence on a flat stone. Charts. Measurements. Photographs of dying mycelium. "Seventeen percent spore viability," he announced, tapping the data. "Network failure across forty-three meters. Your dimension-hopping caused this." Travis glanced at the papers, shrugged, and laughed. "Looks fine to me, dude. Trees are still standing." He walked away without a second look. Anti-fun guy stood there, charts in hand, rage building in his chest. Behind him, something cracked. He turned to see the gate split down the middle. Vines writhed across the wood, moving like they had muscles. The nearest disruption site was spreading. He pulled out his makeshift pressure gauge, a cracked glass dial wrapped in vine tubing he'd rigged yesterday. The pointer jumped from safe to critical in seconds. The disruption was advancing faster than his models predicted. He sprinted toward the nearest structure, a small wooden outhouse with a crescent moon carved in the door. The vines were already creeping toward it, tendrils stretching across the ground. Anti-fun guy drove a metal stake into the earth and mounted the gauge on top. If Travis wouldn't listen to data, maybe he'd care when buildings started collapsing. Anti-fun guy marked the measurement in his notebook with shaking hands. The spreading had accelerated. Travis's ignorance had just made everything worse.

The gauge's needle was still climbing. Anti-fun guy knelt beside the outhouse, watching the pressure reading spike every few seconds. The mycelium network beneath was rupturing, releasing spores into the air in invisible clouds. He could smell it—sweet, cloying, like rotten cotton candy. He grabbed his notebook and ran toward the watchtower fifty meters east. The structure was already listing to one side, beams groaning as fungal decay ate through the support posts. He needed measurements before it collapsed. Before Travis could dismiss this as coincidence. Anti-fun guy circled the base, pressing his hand against the wood. Soft. Crumbling. The spores had weakened it in hours, not days. He sketched the decay pattern, noted the time, then heard the crack. The northwest post split. The tower lurched. Anti-fun guy dove backward as the entire structure folded in on itself, beams snapping like dry twigs. Dust and spores billowed into the air. He lay on his back, coughing, staring at the wreckage. His notebook was still clutched in his hand, filled with measurements Travis would never read. The tower was gone, but he had the data. Irrefutable proof that structures were collapsing. Travis could ignore charts, but he couldn't ignore this. He pulled out his stability probe and drove the iron tip into the soil near a ring of glowing mushrooms that had erupted where the tower once stood. The glass tube filled with swirling colors—purple bleeding into yellow, then red. The liquid churned as spores continued to pour from the fractured mycelium below. Anti-fun guy recorded the readings with shaking hands. Structural integrity: zero. Spore concentration: catastrophic. He had everything he needed now. Photographs of the collapse site. Chemical analysis of the decay. A timeline proving the acceleration. Travis would have to listen. The evidence was too obvious to deny. But as Anti-fun guy packed his equipment, doubt crept in. Travis had walked away from forty-three meters of network failure. He'd shrugged at seventeen percent spore viability. Why would a collapsed watchtower be different? Anti-fun guy stared at the mushroom ring, its golden spores drifting through the air like toxic snow. He could document every structure that fell. He could prove the crisis with perfect data. But if Travis refused to see it, all the evidence in the world wouldn't matter. Anti-fun guy closed his notebook and walked back toward his research station. He had the measurements. He had the proof. Now he needed a way to make Travis care—before the next structure fell.

Anti-fun guy spread his maps across the observation shed's floor. Each disruption site was marked with a red pin. He'd been staring at them for hours, trying to see what he'd missed. The sites weren't random. They couldn't be. Travis's dimension-hopping left patterns—bioelectric signatures, mycorrhizal decay radiating outward in predictable arcs. He pulled out a cloth banner and began marking the fifteen disruption sites with embroidered thread, connecting each one with geometric lines. The pattern emerged as he worked—triangles within triangles, all pointing inward. Anti-fun guy's hands trembled as he tied off the final thread. The convergence point sat directly beneath a jagged obsidian stone formation three kilometers north. Of course Travis would tear reality there next. The location had the highest dimensional instability in the entire forest. Anti-fun guy grabbed his calculating device and fed in the coordinates from each site. The brass gears clicked and whirred as the glass face displayed the trajectory. The next rupture would happen within forty-eight hours. He could prove it now—not just document the damage after, but predict where Travis would strike next. He rolled up the banner and gathered his equipment. This was different than collapsed watchtowers or failed networks. This was prevention. But as he locked the shed door, reality settled over him like cold water. Travis had ignored fifteen sites of catastrophic damage. Why would a prediction change anything? Anti-fun guy looked down at the banner in his hands. The pattern was perfect, undeniable. He finally understood what he'd been missing—proving Travis wrong had never been the problem. The problem was that Travis didn't care about being wrong. Anti-fun guy turned toward the obsidian formation. He couldn't make Travis listen. But he could be there when the next tear happened, ready to document it the moment reality split open.

Anti-fun guy reached the obsidian formation at dawn. He set up his equipment in a clearing twenty meters back—far enough to avoid immediate danger, close enough to capture everything. The calculating device went on a flat stone. The sound recorder beside it. He checked his pocket watch. Forty-seven hours remained by his calculations. The ground split open twelve hours later. Anti-fun guy lurched backward as obsidian erupted through the forest floor, black glass punching upward in jagged spires. The crater opened like a mouth, swallowing trees and stone blocks. A watchtower he hadn't even noticed—overgrown with vines, tucked behind the formation—groaned and collapsed inward. Its stone walls crumbled into the expanding crater as if they'd been rotting for years. He'd been catastrophically wrong. Not about the location. About the timing. About everything that mattered. Anti-fun guy stood at the crater's edge, staring at his equipment scattered across the clearing. The sound recorder had captured nothing useful—just his own shouting. The calculating device showed numbers that meant nothing now. He'd come here to document Travis's next act of destruction, to prove the dimensional tears followed a pattern. Instead he'd proven his own predictions were worthless. The structures that collapsed weren't Travis's fault. They were his. He hadn't warned anyone because he'd been too busy performing certainty. Anti-fun guy picked up the calculating device and threw it into the crater. It disappeared into the black glass depths without a sound.