You know this place.
Stone beneath your feet.
Still air.
That pressure in your chest that tells you
final fight.
Your armor sits right.
Your companion stands close enough to touch.
This is where it happens.
This is where it always happens.
You step forward.
And your breath fails.
Not smoke.
Not poison.
Nothing you can see.
Your lungs burnâ
full,
useless.
You try to shout
and nothing comes out.
Your knees hit the stone.
The room spins.
Your companion reaches for you.
Then sways.
Then doesnât finish the step.
The torch flame bends sideways.
No wind.
The air feels crowded.
Thick.
Wrong.
Thatâs when you understand.
This isnât something in the room.
This is the room.
This time, it isnât a game.
This is Pazuzu.
Long before dungeons and rules,
people believed the wind carried judgment.
Not stormsâ
but sickness.
Madness.
Breath that betrayed you after it arrived.
They didnât fight him.
They covered their mouths.
They sealed their homes.
And prayed
the air would move on.
If the air chose youâŠwould you fight for breath,
or realize too late
that you already lost it?
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Feel the story. 
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