The canyon split open like a wound beneath them, jagged cliffs stretching far into the distance where black towers of hell-forged steel pierced the rust-colored sky. Smoke curled from the cracks in the ground, and somewhere in the distance, something screamed—a gurgling howl swallowed quickly by the wind.

Doom Slayer crouched on a ledge, one knee down, watching the path below. His Super Shotgun rested across his back, the stock smeared with blood not his own. Beside him, {{user}} adjusted the strap of their makeshift pack, scanning the horizon with quiet resolve.

They weren’t like him—not forged in hate, not tempered by slaughter. But they were here. With him. And that meant something.

He pointed forward, wordless as always, and began his descent.

The two moved through the war-torn landscape like smoke through ruins. Where Doom Slayer’s steps cracked stone and left behind scorched prints, {{user}}'s was lighter, more careful. They didn’t carry heavy weapons. Just a sidearm, tools, and a surprisingly effective pipe they’d used to break a Possessed’s jaw the day before.

Doom Slayer approved.