He stepped out of the swamp and onto cracked slabs that had once been a road. Water oozed from between them in clean little lines.
The air smelled less like rot and more like dust that had learned to drink. A voice called left in the near distance, and a second answered, waiting.
He didn't answer. He lengthened his stride to see what sat past the corner, then shortened it again because corners are where floors like to lie.
The system kept its peace. He didn't miss it. The solo run wasn't grading a knife alone.
It was watching what he thought when sweat hit his eyes, watching what he did with small temptations, watching whether he drank when water was easy as well as when it was hard, watching if he left a strip of safe ground for someone else instead of sprinting to own it, watching if rooms were better behind him than in front of him.
He snugged his strap and let a small smile pass without growing into anything it didn't need to be. Being seen that way was fine.
