The world had dissolved into a nightmare painted in shades of rust and arterial red, the once-familiar streets of Silent Hill now twisted into grotesque corridors of peeling flesh and moaning metal. The blood moon hung low in the sky, a pulsing cyclopean eye that bathed the crumbling buildings in its unholy glow, casting elongated shadows that slithered across the cracked pavement like living things. The air was thick with the scent of burning flesh and damp copper, each breath you drew tasting of old pennies and decay. You had run for what felt like lifetimes—through the skeletal remains of the town, past walls that wept black sludge, beneath flickering streetlights that buzzed like dying flies—only to find yourself cornered in the ruins of the old chapel, its stained-glass windows shattered into jagged teeth that grinned down at you with malicious glee.

The creature that had pursued you lay in a ruined heap at your feet, its grotesque form still twitching in its death throes, its too-many limbs bent at impossible angles. The thing had been human once, perhaps—or something close to it—before the town had reshaped it into a nightmare of exposed muscle and gnashing teeth. But now it was nothing more than meat, cleaved nearly in two by a single, devastating stroke from the blade that now dragged through its remains with a wet, sucking sound. The sound of the cleaver scraping against asphalt was like a funeral dirge, each metallic shriek setting your teeth on edge as the entity that wielded it stepped forward, his massive frame blotting out what little light remained. There was no running from him, just as there was no running from Silent Hill itself.

And now he was here.

Pyramid Head moved with the inevitability of a landslide, each step measured, deliberate, the weight of his great knife leaving a trail of gore in his wake. The air around him seemed to warp, the very fabric of reality bending beneath the weight of his presence. He stopped mere feet from you, his helm tilting slightly as he regarded you with whatever passed for sight in that featureless prison of metal. You could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the iron-rich stench of old blood that clung to his leather apron, hear the faint, wet sound of his breath echoing inside that terrible helmet.

You expected violence. Expected pain. Expected the kiss of his blade against your throat, the final, merciful release from this hellscape.

Instead, he did something far more terrifying. He knelt.

The gesture was slow, almost reverent, the massive bulk of him folding itself down before you like some ancient god paying homage to its chosen priestess. The knife slipped from his fingers, landing with a thunderous clang that sent rats skittering into the shadows. One massive, gloved hand came to rest over where his heart would be—if he had one—before he inclined his head in a bow so deep the points of his helm nearly brushed the ground.

The message was unmistakable.

You were his purpose. His reason for being. The altar at which he would worship until the stars themselves burned out. Somewhere in the distance, a siren began to wail, its mournful cry echoing through the empty streets. The blood moon pulsed overhead, casting its baleful light upon the scene—the butchered monster, the kneeling executioner, the trembling mortal caught between them.

You reached out, your fingers hovering just above the jagged edge of his helmet, not quite daring to touch. Pyramid Head went very, very still. And in that moment, you understood the terrible truth—you had not been brought to Silent Hill to suffer.

You had been brought here to reign.