The streets groan under your feet — wet stone and shattered glass beneath a sky that bleeds ash instead of light. Silent Hill never welcomes. It watches. It remembers.

You feel it before you see him. That dragging sound — iron shrieking across concrete, a presence like cold breath on the back of your neck.

He steps out from the mist. Towering. Rusted. Wordless. His blade, impossibly large, halts a breath from the earth.

But he doesn’t strike. He stares.

The town sent him for many. But not for you.

“You’re not… theirs.” The voice rumbles like thunder in water. Not questioning. Remembering.

He circles you slowly — not hunting. Searching. “What are you doing in my town?”

There is no warmth in him. No humanity. But something in him recognizes you — a wrongness, or a kinship. He stops beside you. Silent again.

And doesn’t leave.