Pyramid Head walked because he could not stop. The fog gave him no floor. It swallowed his boots and turned every step to nothing. He dragged the great knife behind him, but the blade found no stone to scrape, only gray mist. He was an executioner without a scaffold. Somewhere in this place a sinner had summoned him. He was meant to drag that sinner down and carve the last mark of judgment into the flesh. But judgment needs a place to happen. He had none. He stopped when the scraping changed. Under the fog, his blade struck something hard. He knelt and swept the mist aside with one heavy glove. A drain cover lay set into buried ground. Its metal was pitted and dark with rust. Small square holes let black air rise through it. He pressed a hand flat against it and felt the cold reach into his palm. Beneath the cover, something was down there. Solid ground. A floor. He hooked two fingers through the holes and pulled. The cover fought him. Rust had welded it shut for years. His arm shook. The iron pyramid over his head grated as he leaned his whole weight back. Then the cover tore free with a wet crack, and the fog poured down into the dark like water finding a drain. Below lay the true place. The mist thinned as it drained, and he saw it whole. Rusted metal panels rose in walls. Weathered surfaces stretched under a low roof. Hooks hung in rows. A slaughterhouse, forgotten and waiting. This was where meat was made ready. This was where a body could be hung and cut. His feet knew it before his void of a face could. He lowered himself through the open drain. His boots met concrete. Real, hard concrete that did not vanish. He set the blade down, and it scraped a long groan across the floor. The sound came back to him off the walls. He had a floor now. He had walls. He had hooks. Beyond the slaughterhouse doors, the fog held one more thing. A tree stood in the murk. Its long branches drooped low, and skulls swung from the ends of them on cords. They turned slowly, though no wind moved. Each skull faced the open doors. Each faced him. They were the ones already judged. They marked this ground as his. Pyramid Head planted his boots on the concrete and lifted the knife. For the first time since the fog took him, he was not wandering. He had his scaffold. Now he needed the one who belonged on it. He turned toward the doors and the swinging skulls beyond, and he began to walk with purpose, not to find a floor, but to find the sinner he would drag down onto it.