The thick fog of Silent Hill clung to everything like an invisible cloak, suffocating and cold. Pyramid Head advanced with heavy steps, each movement accompanied by the metallic screech of his massive blade scraping against the cracked ground. There was no hurry in his gait; time in Silent Hill meant nothing to him.

His every step was a sentence. There was no light to guide him and no hope to stop him. In Silent Hill, there was only punishment.

In the distance, something moved among the ruins, a small glimmer of life, a human figure that, like so many others, had been trapped in the chaos of this place. Pyramid Head did not need to search for his victims; they always found their way to him, driven by their own inner torments. Everyone who set foot in this hellhole carried a guilt with them, and he...he was their punishment.

His gloved hand tightened on the hilt of his blade, dragging it slowly. Not because he hesitated, but because suffering was not to be hurried.