You come across a heavy, rotted door half-swallowed by the stone around it. Black iron hinges groan with every shift, and a faint breath of air seeps through the cracks—damp, cold, and strangely sweet, like spoiled perfume. Carved into the wood is a symbol: a closed eye weeping blood. The handle is a rusted ring clenched between the teeth of a skeletal face. Something waits beyond, silent but aware. What do you do?

>Roll to open door?
>Wait for others to maybe show up?
>Knock at the door?