The mist thins — but not completely.

It sinks. Lowers. Until it's no longer a wall around me, but a layer at my feet. It curls around my ankles, hiding my boots, like morning fog on a cold field after rain.

Above it, the world is clear.

Broken walls. Twisted metal. Trees stripped of leaves, their branches like cracked fingers. Graffiti and carved symbols everywhere — on stone, on wood, on the remnants of doors.

I take a step. The mist swirls but doesn't rise.

"That's not natural," Don Juan says.

"Nothing here is," I reply.

I move deeper into the ruins. The symbols watch me from every surface. The same ones. Over and over.

I stop at a wooden plank nailed to a wall.

The carvings are fresh. The wood is dry. Someone was here recently.

Then I hear it.

Behind me. A sound like bones shifting. Dry. Slow. Grinding against each other.

I freeze.

"Don't turn around," Don Juan says.

I turn my head slightly.

The mist behind me stirs. Something moves in it. Low to the ground. Violet light pulses faintly beneath the fog.

"It followed us," I say.

"Then don't give it a reason to catch up," Don Juan replies.

I take another step.

Something clicks under my boot.

"Stop!" Don Juan shouts.

I freeze.

Under the mist — a metallic sound. A latch. A trap.

I crouch slowly and brush the fog aside with my hand.

Below — a pit. Spikes. Rusted, waiting.

"I told you to watch your step," Don Juan says.

I step back. Slowly.

The pit stays behind me.

But the sound of bones doesn't stop.