The building met him with silence.
Not the calm kind — the wrong one. Heavy, oppressive, as if the air itself was holding its breath.
Sergey stood at the entrance of what used to be an office complex. Collapsed ceiling panels, broken glass under his boots, rusted metal structures twisted by time. The beam of his flashlight cut through the darkness, illuminating dust and fungal spores slowly drifting in the air.
He frowned.
"Too quiet," he muttered.
He adjusted the straps of his backpack and stepped inside.
The corridor stretched forward, swallowed by shadows. Old posters peeled from the walls, wires hung like dead veins. Somewhere deep inside the building, water dripped rhythmically, echoing like a slow countdown.
Sergey moved carefully. No rush. Every step measured.
Years in the Zone had taught him one thing — silence never meant safety.
He entered a large open office. Desks were overturned, chairs scattered as if people had fled in panic. Near the far wall sat a corpse.
At first glance — just another dead man.
At second glance — wrong.
The body was mummified, dried out, fused with the wall behind it. Fungal growths spread from the corpse like roots, crawling across concrete. Dark particles floated in the air around it, barely visible in the flashlight's beam.
Sergey stopped.
Slowly, he put on his gas mask.
"That's not fresh," he whispered. "And not normal."
He took a step closer.
That was when the feeling hit him.
Not a sound.
Not movement.
Presence.
His instincts screamed.
He swung the flashlight to the left — nothing but darkness. To the right — empty cubicles. Above — broken ceiling.
Then something moved.
Fast.
From the shadows, a figure launched itself at him with a sharp, distorted shriek.
Sergey barely had time to react.
A stalker.
Its body was lean, elongated, muscles stretched unnaturally under pale, fungus-covered skin. It didn't run — it leapt, pushing off the wall like a predator. Long fingers ended in claws that scraped against Sergey's armor, leaving deep marks.
He stumbled back, slammed his shoulder into a desk, and struck out with his elbow. The blow knocked the creature aside, but it didn't fall — it rolled, hissed, and vanished back into the darkness.
Gone.
"Shit…" Sergey breathed.
Silence returned instantly.
Too instantly.
He turned slowly, flashlight sweeping the room. Every shadow now felt alive. Every dark corner — a potential death trap.
The stalker didn't attack again.
It was waiting.
Sergey lowered his center of gravity, pistol ready, finger tense on the trigger. His breathing slowed. He listened — not with his ears, but with his whole body.
A faint scrape.
Behind him.
The stalker struck again — this time from the rear.
Sergey dropped to one knee and fired blindly. The first shot missed. The second hit something — the creature screamed, high and broken, but didn't stop.
It crashed into him, claws slashing. He felt pain bloom across his arm.
He fired again.
Once.
Twice.
The final shot shattered the stalker's skull. The body twitched violently, then collapsed at his feet.
Silence.
Real silence, this time.
Sergey stayed where he was, breathing heavily, waiting. Ten seconds. Twenty.
Nothing.
He stood up slowly and aimed the flashlight at the corpse.
"Stalker…" he said quietly. "So they exist here too."
He holstered his pistol, leaned against the wall, and pulled off his gas mask. His hands were shaking — not from fear, but from adrenaline.
He lit a cigarette.
The smoke mixed with spores in the air, disappearing into the darkness.
"Looks like this world didn't forget how to hunt," Sergey muttered.
He glanced toward the corridor ahead — deeper, darker, more dangerous.
And for the first time since arriving in this world, he understood one thing clearly:
He was no longer the only hunter here.