After about half an hour of fast, frantic driving—cutting through the devastation raging across the military base, past destroyed war machines like exploded, smoking tanks that filled the air with a heavy, toxic stench, fires between buildings that were nearly collapsed and decaying, and the corpses of soldiers and civilians who had tried to flee, both human and cyberhuman, frozen in positions so dynamic it almost seemed as if, even in death, they were still trying to escape in terror—the vans finally reached the bunker area.
The bunkers were still filling up, overcrowded and clogged with a dense mass of people who, amid wails, hysterical breakdowns, and desperate crying, struggled to push forward and climb onto the circular platforms of the elevators—dirty, dull metal disks spaced several meters apart, covered and surrounded by large, low metal cylinders that supported their structure.
"Fuck… what a mess," one of the soldiers muttered in Sicilian, stepping out of the rear van to open up for the others behind. He moved quickly, almost clumsily in his haste, nearly stumbling as he yanked the door open and rushed down the narrow external steps.
"We need to move!" the soldier shouted, opening the back doors. "These are the last bunkers still open!"
Toria was the first to be taken out, escorted by two soldiers who held her firmly by the arms and under the shoulders, gripping her with enough force to almost hurt as they led her toward one of the bunker entrances.
As she looked around at the crowd outside—feeling their eyes on her, filled with disgust, contempt, and shame—she immediately felt sick. Her head began to spin, as if she had been twirling for too long. Her vision blurred into streaks of motion, images both indistinct and painfully sharp at the same time. She could hear insults, threats, pleas for her to take them with her—even though no one was actually looking.
And yet, she knew they were watching.
That was why she felt their gaze on her. That was why she knew she was hated in that moment.
Every step she took toward the entrance of bunker number two—whose path seemed to open before her like the waters of the Red Sea—was one step further away from death. That was what the others thought for her. It was what she wished she could believe too.
But the truth was, Toria didn't feel guilty.
She was a good person. Kind-hearted. She always had been—despite her difficult life, despite her questionable choices, despite her outbursts of anger, her emotional instability, her inability to control herself.
She was, in many ways, almost perfect. Beautiful, gentle, intelligent. An angel brought down to Earth.
And yet, she would never give up her place.
Not because it would be useless—though it would, since inside those filthy, massive bunkers, light barely reached at all. Not because she wanted to pretend she was being saved, to follow the script the UNADF and Bryte-Rodak had been enforcing for years. Not because she wanted to avoid conflict with the soldiers, or create unnecessary trouble. Not because she feared the consequences of defying protocol, nor because she feared for her own life.
"The story has to go this way."
She kept thinking that, over and over, as darkness descended beneath her—packed together with hundreds of other people, suffocated by hot, frantic breaths, crushed so tightly she felt like she might be torn apart—slowly sinking downward, saying goodbye to the light as if it were a final farewell.
Just before disappearing completely, through the nearly lifeless shapes of the crowd—silhouetted by the contrast between the light outside and the darkness within—as the cylinders closed and a rusted, worn metal slab descended from above, its surface streaked with dark marks from moisture or contact with other metal objects, screeching loudly as its worn gears ground together—
she saw her.
A girl. Barely eighteen. Alone. Maybe a worker, a soldier, a cafeteria cook.
Her eyes were a stunning blue, shining like sunlight over the sea—though dulled by the grime on her face: mud, grease, blood. Her clothes were torn. Her body marked by open wounds, as if she had just barely escaped some recent catastrophe.
She stared straight into Toria's eyes.
Intensely.
Around her, the crowd surged, panicking, screaming in pain—but in that girl's gaze there was something else: a deep, searing pain, a burning hatred, and a twisted, suffocating jealousy that seemed capable of tearing apart not just flesh, but the soul itself.
Toria didn't want to feel guilty.
She had already told herself that. Promised it.
She didn't want to be bent under that look—so pitiful, so full of rage.
She wanted to say "I'm sorry." She truly did. She wanted to cry, even if it meant soaking the clothes of the other refugees. She wanted to scream—but they would have silenced her immediately. She could have run to her, dragged her into her place in the bunker—
but she didn't.
It was hard to stay still, trying not to tremble, as the bunker doors shut with a massive metallic thud, sending a powerful echo through her chest and ribs—plunging everything into yet another layer of filthy, infernal darkness, almost as suffocating as the descent itself.
Toria stared at Victor, lying in the bed, tucked beneath a nearly transparent pale-blue sheet that faintly revealed his bare chest beneath, especially the darker outlines of his nipples. She had just finished yet another operation, assisted by a few colleagues—if you could call them that. She didn't know any of them.
Two hours had already passed.
The air inside bunker 20 was thin and hot, made worse by exposed machinery that vented gas and steam like oversized air fresheners, spreading a thick, suffocating smell—something like methane mixed with other substances she couldn't even identify. Her forehead and hair were damp with sweat, her clothes soaked and filthy.
In truth, she was so lost in thought—staring at the monitor connected to Victor, now emitting steady, healthy beeps—that she didn't care about the humidity in the room anymore.
As the other doctors gradually left, some without even saying goodbye, Toria remained there alone.
A faint smile touched her lips, glistening with sweat like crystal under the ceiling light, mixed with thin trails of tears running down her pale face.
Then, three metallic knocks sounded against the open doorway behind her.
"I told you he'd pull through."
Abner stood there, watching the scene carefully. A faint, almost imperceptible smile marked his face, paired with an intense yet melancholic gaze. He lingered in the doorway for a few seconds, waiting for a response that never came.
Then Toria turned slightly—just enough to catch sight of his shadow—and quickly turned fully toward him.
"I'm sorry, Lieutenant…" she said, wiping sweat and tears with the sleeve of her blue coat.
"Don't apologize. You've done nothing to apologize for."
He stepped into the room, slow and deliberate.
"If you say so…" she replied, her voice carrying a bitterness that seemed to fill the room with an invisible weight. Abner understood immediately.
"Anyway, I just came by to check on things. Take care of him," he said after a brief pause, glancing at Victor sleeping in the bed. "He's a good kid," he added, his smile widening slightly. "I'm really glad you found each other."
Toria, caught off guard by that statement, let a more genuine smile emerge.
Then Abner turned and headed for the door. For a moment, it almost seemed like he was fleeing the room—as if the air itself were heavy with guilt and damage.
He stopped again at the threshold, remaining there for a few seconds.
He didn't turn around.
"I want to tell you something… Toria."
She didn't turn either, her eyes fixed on Victor and the machines monitoring his vital signs, almost hypnotized by the steady beeping.
"Don't feel guilty for surviving. Not even at someone else's expense."
Silence fell completely.
Abner left the room for good, leaving her alone once more.
And then—
she started crying again.
This time, not out of relief.