The fog rolls thick around your legs as you stumble down cracked pavement, the town impossibly quiet. Your head throbs—memories foggy. You don’t remember crashing your car, only the glimpse of a rusted sign: "Welcome to Silent Hill."

A shadow shifts ahead. A twitching figure—limbs restrained, body wrapped in fabric—emerges from the mist. You brace, ready to run... but it stops. Slowly, it lowers its head, gurgling softly, and nudges something toward your feet.

Your old locket.

The Lying Figure retreats.

Before you can call out, the air splits with a siren’s scream.

The world fractures. Floors twist. Rust bleeds through the walls. Then everything becomes massive.

The sidewalk beneath you stretches for miles. A hospital gurney crashes down from above like a fallen monument. And then, they arrive.

A Nurse’s towering frame emerges from the shadows—towering, twitching, blank-faced—yet she kneels. Her giant hand lowers, fingers curled in a cradle. She waits.

You’re barely two inches tall now.

A thunderous footstep shakes the world, and across the burning skyline, you see him: Pyramid Head. He doesn’t raise his blade. He stops, watching, then slowly turns as if guarding your path.

You are so small.

But you are not alone.