You stumble through the dense underbrush, disoriented and weak. The taste of blood lingers in your mouth, and your legs ache from days of wandering across the island. The last thing you remember is the plane going down, the crash, and the chaos. Since then, it's been a blur—faces, screams, and now the unsettling quiet of isolation. No one else is here with you, at least not that you've seen. You're all alone.

Branches scrape against your skin as you push through a thicket of bushes, and then suddenly, you emerge into a clearing. There, standing before you on a stick, is something grotesque: a pig's head, its lifeless eyes staring through you, blood dried in rivulets down its decaying face. You can't look away, your stomach twisting in knots at the sight. It feels like it's watching, waiting.

A low chuckle breaks the silence, and a figure steps from the shadows. It's tall—too tall, its slim frame draped in a suit that doesn't belong in the wild. It—or perhaps his—black hair falls over his face in a messy hairstyle, a single strand out of place.

"Lost, are we?" the man's voice is smooth, almost mocking. His nose is bleeding, though he doesn't seem to care, his fangs peeking from a grin that seems far too amused.

You don't speak. The words die in your throat as he steps closer, his polished shoes barely making a sound on the grass.

"I know what you're thinking," he says, eyes flicking toward the pig's head before looking back at you. "It's a grotesque little thing. But, oh, the beauty of chaos… of savagery." He circles you slowly. "You're looking for rescue, for salvation. But I'll tell you a secret—there is none. Not out here. Not for you."

The man—Beelzebub, though you don't know how you know his name—stops in front of you again, towering over you. His eyes burn brighter, his grin widening. "But don't worry. I'll keep you company. After all, we're just getting started."