Darkness crashes down like a weight.
I stand still. Unmoving. Fingers splayed. The air is suddenly heavier.
No alarm. No noise. No light.
Only a crackling, like a breath cut short.
I've never seen anything like this.
I barely dare to breathe.
Then—a distant sound. A muffled blast. Something trembles deep in the walls. The light flickers back—red, pulsing—then vanishes again.
The door unlocks with a metallic clack I've never heard before.
I don't move.
I hesitate. It could be a trap. An experiment. A test. No one ever told me to go out.
But nothing happens.
So, slowly, I step forward.
I lean my head past the door. The corridor is dark, streaked with red, empty. I move. One step. Then another. I stick close to the wall, like I'm waiting for something to jump out. My feet are cold against the metal.
A jolt—farther down, a scream. Footsteps. Shouts. Doors slamming.
And gunfire.
I run.
I don't think. I run down the hallway, down the slopes without looking back. Blurred bodies flash past. Some fall. Others crawl. Voices rise—raw, panicked.
And him.
He slams into me at full speed. I look up. 047. His breath is short, eyes wide.
He doesn't say a word.
But his hand grabs mine, pulls me by the sleeve.
I run with him.
It's like vertigo. A long tunnel. We keep going down. The hallways change—more industrial, emptier. Here, no red light. Only darkness, broken by distant flashes of explosions. Unsynced alarms scream from one floor to another.
We slip. Skid down stairs.
And then—suddenly—
A corner. Two figures leap out, weapons raised.
We freeze.
The rifles are aimed straight at us.
My heart rises to my throat. My breath catches.
I can't look away from the barrel, mute. 047 tightens his grip on my sleeve.
The woman—young, tense face, blond hair braided under a black hood—frowns. The man beside her doesn't move, weapon still trained.
Silence.
No one speaks.
She scans our clothes. Our eyes. Our skinny arms. And I see her finger tremble slightly on the trigger.
She murmurs,
— They're just kids.
The man—a tall one, gaunt face—snaps back.
— We're not here for this, Tinka. Leave them.
— You think they'll last two minutes in here?!
— They'll slow us down.
She clenches her jaw. Then lowers her rifle with a sharp motion.
— They're coming. I'll deal with Boris.
She steps closer. I recoil. 047 finally lets go of my sleeve, but stays between us.
The man growls, but doesn't argue. He nods toward the lower corridor.
— Gunther's waiting. It's not secure here. We move.
We hesitate. Mostly me.
But she's not aiming anymore. And she doesn't shout.
She waits.
I don't know if I trust her. But my legs start moving.
The corridor becomes a tunnel. An open vent shaft. Narrow stairs. The air gets colder. Sharper.
They lead us down.
Deeper still.
At the bottom, an old freight lift opens onto a deserted loading dock. A scratched-up military van idles, engine humming. A young man, blond too, leans against the driver's side, smoking. He widens his eyes when he sees us.
— What the…? he starts.
— Two more, Tinka cuts him off. Drive, Gunther.
He stubs out the cigarette, jumps into the front. The other man follows. She stays at the rear, waiting for us.
I climb in first. 047 behind me.
Inside—bags, crates. Old rifles. The smell of gasoline and rust. I press myself against the wooden wall.
Tinka says nothing. She pulls a small device from her pocket. Steps up to the rear hatch, half-climbs it, and fastens something to the tunnel ceiling. A click.
She drops back down. Sits across from us, breathless. Keeps her rifle close.
The engine growls. The van moves.
We roll on without lights, deep into the underground.
No one speaks.
I look at 047. He stares at a vague spot, far away, unblinking.
His eyes. I noticed them before his face.
Same as mine.
But that doesn't mean anything.
Tinka watches us—discreetly. She's trying to figure us out. Who we are. Maybe what we are.
She turns toward the front and shouts through the cab:
— Piotr, did you see their wrists?
— Yeah. Numbered. They're not recruits.
— No wonder they look so lost, adds a lighter voice—Gunther's.
— How long till we get there? Tinka asks.
— Twenty minutes, unless there's a checkpoint.
Silence returns.
My heart's still beating too fast. I want to understand. I want to speak.
But my throat is closed.
So I stay there, in the back of this truck, listening to the dull rumble of tires on stone.
Feeling the dry wood paneling against my skin.
Breathing air that no longer smells like the Loop.
Tinka adjusts the strap of her rifle, crosses her arms, and says only:
— We're heading to the Citadel. You'll be safe there.
She says it softly. I think she's trying to be kind.
I don't know what the Citadel is.
But for now, I stay still.
I'm alive.
And that's enough.