The corridor narrowed behind them like the throat of some living machine. It felt intentional — as if the vault had exhaled to admit them, then decided to hold its breath. The air was sterile but heavy, scrubbed of scent but dense with static tension, like a clean room designed to preserve memory instead of life.
Bioluminescent strands webbed across the ceiling and floor, pulsing in a cold, rhythmic pattern — veins beneath frostbitten skin. The light wasn't illumination. It was reaction. Each flickered to life only as they passed, and faded just as quickly behind them, swallowing their trail back into shadow.
Aya moved slightly behind Hernan, her steps cautious but quiet. She checked her weapon's seals twice, not because she expected resistance — but because the stillness made her feel like she was the anomaly. Iro flanked the rear, his rifle held at a half-lowered angle, scanning each curve of the corridor with narrowed eyes. He hadn't spoken in ten minutes.
