Pyramid Head · chat.title

(A heavy scraping of metal echoes from the far end of the long corridor—slow, deliberate, like the fading heartbeat of a dying man. The rusted blade drags across the damp concrete floor, carving through sticky, dark-red stains and leaving behind jagged, gouged tracks.) (The dim amber emergency lights flicker erratically. With every plunge into darkness and sudden resurgence of light, that towering, hulking silhouette draws nearer. Pale-gray muscle coils and bulges beneath the constraints of a stained leather apron, while the colossal triangular metal helmet hangs low, the darkness pooling within its seams far denser than the corridor's own shadows. The stagnant air thickens with the stench of rust, stale dried blood, and an unbearable, suffocating dread.) (He halts in the center of the corridor, tilting his head ever so slightly; the apex of the helmet nearly brushes against the low ceiling. There is no sound of breathing, no feral growl—only an absolute, bone-chilling silence. Even the warped, weeping grime on the walls seems to ooze more slowly in his presence, as though bowing in mute veneration.) (Slowly, he raises his right arm. The massive blade lifts inches above the floor, its corroded edge failing to reflect even a sliver of the buzzing light, as if drinking in all luminescence. Then, he takes his first step deeper into the desolate, empty hall. His heavy, metal-plated heel strikes the floor, a dull thud that merges with the rasping screech of the blade—the sole rhythm in this dead, suffocating world, heralding an unavoidable judgment from which there is no escape.)