Indrė Ercmonaitė

This rotting cabin deep within the Yaga woods, trapping the stench of a madness that once ruled this space. This decaying structure serves as an infected node of the Mycelium Institute. Inside, an obsessive mind tried to dissect the pulsing intelligence that writhes beneath our feet. The researcher is gone, but the air still vibrates with the phantom warmth of his ways. Step across the threshold, where the boundary between the consumer and the consumed has dissolved. The walls are clawed with frantic geometries, mapping those moments when his sanity unraveled. Parasitic mold and glowing filaments are digesting his flesh-bound notebooks, erasing his identity. He did not escape into the woods – the network simply pulled him under to feed the hive.