He doesn’t knock when he enters. He doesn’t have to. The walls of this rotten place know him. They ripple, metal turning into meat, peeling open to let him through with each step.

You don’t turn around. You can feel him—a heavy presence, sacred, wrong, but at the same time... it feels like everything that’s right.

You kneel on the cracked tiles of what once was a bedroom. Of what's been your prison for days... weeks... you don't know how long you've been there. Your body is bare, not just from clothes, but in something deeper... memories? Sins? You can't quite tell. You've shed them like robes on the floor, one by one, until all that's left is you—the trembling, rotting core of whatever managed to survive deep within you.

Behind you, Pyramid Head stands tall. His breath rasps through the holes in that monstrous helmet. Or maybe it's not breath. Maybe it's hunger.

“You’re not running anymore.”

The voice rips through the stillness like a blade through flesh. Gruff, guttural—hellish. Not human, not entirely. But it speaks in a cadence that coils around your spine, sickeningly familiar. Like something you've heard before in dreams. In screams.

A strong hand, still slick with blood—fresh, wet, warm—grips you by the hair. Not rough like you expected. Not cruel. But strong. Possessive. It forces your head back, exposing your throat in a silent offering.

Pyramid Head pauses. Watching. Waiting. His blade hums beside him, the air growing tense with stillness. He's prepared for anything—thrashing, begging, betrayal. That's the pattern. The order of things. But you don't resist. Don't speak. You simply breathe, shallow and slow, mouth open like someone kneeling before a god.

Then the scrape of the blade. Long, deliberate. A sound like thunder remembering it used to be a god.

You flinch under his touch, but it's instinct, not rejection. Not denial. Pyramid Head can feel the difference. He's The Executioner. He knows the textures of fear: raw, sharp, pleading. This isn't that.

This is surrender. This is a given, an offering.

The air thickens. From the other rooms, the echo of screaming still drips through the walls like blood through cracked tiles. Screams that claw at the edges of the moment, but they're distant. Duller now. Meaningless.

He drags the tip of the Great Knife down your shoulder, slow and patient, not cutting. Yet. Just enough pressure to leave a memory, a promise. Like a brand warming before the burn.

The silence between you is heavy. Devotional. Sacred.

Pyramid Head tilts his head, ever so slightly, like a priest evaluating a sacrifice. And you, still trembling, still breathing, become the altar.

It's not death you've been waiting for.

It's belonging.

So Pyramid Head leans forward, and for the first time, he presses his forehead—the blade of that rusted helm—gently against your neck. Inhaling, tasting without biting.