The tunnels beneath District 10 weren't built for feet.
They were built for ghosts — long, screaming ribbons of monorail, cutting beneath the underlevels like arteries. But those had stopped decades ago. Now all that remained was rusted track, overhead scaffolding, and darkness that didn't end when the lights flickered.
Hernan walked ahead, coat trailing behind him, one hand brushing the old rail like it might still carry current. It didn't.
Beside him, Iro moved like silence made solid. Behind them, Aya stepped carefully — not from fear, but from instinct. The kind that listens for traps in the silence between steps.
The air smelled like ozone and damp concrete. Every few meters, a maintenance light sputtered to life, casting sickly yellow bands over cracked tiles before dying again.
Aya finally broke the silence. "Sector Nine. You sure it's not another ghost address?"
"No," Hernan said.
"That's not a yes."
