The good thing about the fog is R doesn't even have to shuffle very fast to fade into it: it's so thick that it's like a soup, people reduced to shapes. A shadow here and there, darting or limping away.

After the rush for the Cornucopia, R settles staggering away with the vague concept he should have a plan that didn't involve lurching around aimlessly until he started eating people. Night falls by the time he makes it to one of the buildings: it's run down, covered in weeds and creepers and frankly, it looks a lot like the stuff he's seen back home. The door's hanging open in this one. It's easy to shuffle in, his shoes creaking against the floor boards as he lifts his head, sniffs noisily.

Someone's in here.

R follows the smell. No eating. Just - just groaning hi. Something reassuring. Helping, not murdering. That's his motto for this Arena.