The crimson and bruised-grey sky of the Dreamscape bled into a deeper, unsettling purple as Andrew and Marrow emerged from the makeshift safety of the bunker.
The fog, a relentless, choking presence, still clung to the shattered landscape, muffling sounds and distorting shapes. It was a world perpetually on the verge of dissolution, a canvas of psychological warfare painted in shades of dread.
The silence, punctuated only by the scuff of their boots on debris and the rogue shadow's soft, rhythmic tread, was a constant, unnerving companion.
Andrew pulled his tattered jacket tighter, the phantom chill of the Dreamscape seeping into his bones. His mind, however, was warm with a focused resolve. Anna. Her name was a silent mantra, a beacon in the oppressive gloom.
He wasn't just fighting for survival anymore; he was fighting to go back. It was a simple, yet profound, shift in perspective that had anchored him in this madness. He wasn't just reacting; he was acting.
