The marrow station pulsed like a living organ.
Every tile, every wall, every length of warped subway steel breathed with a rhythm too deep for the human ear yet too heavy to ignore. It was in the floor, in the air, in their bones. The kneeling creatures echoed that rhythm with their chant, their voices layered into a single word that pressed against Lin's skull until it felt carved into his marrow.
"Heir. Heir. Heir."
The sound was endless, reverent, suffocating. It drowned out the memory of gunfire, the drip of ichor, even Min-joon's shallow, terrified breaths.
Lin stood frozen, chains quivering at his sides like serpents ready to strike. His lungs burned with every inhale, the air thick with metallic tang and wet rot. The marrow lines had accepted them into their depths—but not as intruders. Not as prey. They bowed, worshipping, as if he had always belonged here.
