We leave the guillotine behind. The axe still hums, but it doesn't follow.

The ruins stretch on. Broken walls. Dead trees. Mist curling at our feet.

Then we find him.

A man. Sitting on the ground. His armor is old — rusted, dented, covered in moss. A sword lies beside him. A shield, cracked and faded.

He doesn't move.

I stop.

"Is he dead?"

"No," Don Juan says. "Look at his chest."

The man raises a knife. It's dull — no edge left, just a worn piece of metal. He presses it to his chest and cuts. Slow. Deliberate. Blood spills. He doesn't flinch.

He reaches into the wound. Pulls something out. A heart.

He drops it on the ground.

Then he waits.

The wound closes. The skin knits. The blood stops.

But his clothes stay torn. The blood stays. The scars on his armor remain.

He picks up the knife again.

"He's been doing this for a long time," Don Juan says.

I look at the wall behind him. It's white. At first glance, just a white brick wall.

Then I step closer.

It's not white. It's covered in marks. Thousands of them. Tally marks — cut into the stone, over and over, until the surface is worn down to white stubs.

"He's counting," I say. "Like days in a cell."

"Every day. Every attempt."

"Hey," I say to the man. "What's your name?"

He stops. The knife hovers over his chest. For the first time, he looks at me.

His eyes are empty. Not angry. Not sad. Just... gone.

"I don't remember," he says.

"Where are you from?"

"I don't remember that either."

He looks at the knife.

"I only remember the fire."

He cuts again.

"She's not offering a way out," Don Juan mutters. "She's offering a web. And everyone who takes the deal gets stuck in it."

"A web?"

"A spider's web. You struggle, you get more tangled. You stop, you wait to die. Either way — you're caught."

I look at the man. At the wall. At the knife.

"Then we don't struggle," I say.

"Then we die waiting."

"Or we find the spider."

Don Juan pauses.

"And do what?"

"Cut the web."