"Oh, you don't know what Karlson is?" he muttered to the empty room. "It's just a little game I'm working on..." He stepped into the light, ready to do it all again.

A squad of Bean-bots—stumpy, white guards with glowing red visors—clattered into the room, raising their rifles. Karlson didn't panic. He hit the ground rolling, snatched a pistol from a fallen bot, and entered a state of "Flow." Everything turned a hazy blue. He kicked a table into a bot's face, backflipped over a stream of bullets, and unleashed a volley of shots that sent the Beans flying like ragdolls.

He didn’t know who he was or why his movements felt like they were governed by the laws of a physics engine on overdrive, but he knew that the glowing carton at the end of the hall was his destiny.

He was a master of momentum, a parkour god fueled by a dairy-based obsession.

The lab's security system screamed. Lasers crisscrossed the corridors, and massive fans threatened to blow him into the abyss. Karlson leaned into the chaos. He wall-ran along a curved glass partition, used the recoil of a shotgun to boost himself over a wall of spikes, and smashed through a vent.

Karlson, a restless experiment, woke up in a pristine, white-walled laboratory with a singular, primal urge: .

Finally, he reached the Inner Sanctum. There it was, sitting on a pedestal of pure light: the 2% Reduced Fat Milk.

The exit door hissed open, revealing a world of even more impossible jumps and even more Bean-bots. Karlson grinned.