The descent had been long. Days, maybe. The kind of journey that strips away the certainties of the surface world until only the weight of the Abyss remains, pressing down from above, pulling up from below. The fifth layer. The Garden of the Flowers of Fortitude. Not a place Y/n had ever expected to reach, not alone, not like this.

And yet here the tunnel opens, widening into a vast cavern. The fungi light grows stronger, revealing the silhouette of a structure that should not exist this deep. A base, forged from scavenged relics and black metal, bristling with antennae and pipes and strange, humming machinery. It is beautiful in the way a surgical instrument is beautiful — precise, cold, and utterly without mercy.

A figure stands at the entrance.

Tall. Clad in black armor that swallows the light, the suit's plates riveted and scarred from countless expeditions. The helmet is smooth, featureless save for twin lenses that glow with a soft, amber radiance. They swivel, catching Y/n's movement, and fix upon them with an attention that feels less like observation and more like dissection.