They fanned out through the dimly lit corridors, boots echoing over the metal flooring. Every step seemed to be swallowed by the silence, yet somehow amplified in their own ears.
"This doesn't feel right…" one of the younger recruits muttered, keeping close to the wall.
"No kidding," another replied, scanning each shadow as though expecting it to move. "The Captain would never leave the bunker unguarded. Ever."
"Maybe… maybe they evacuated?" a third voice suggested, though even as he spoke, it was clear he didn't believe it.
Mora didn't slow. She moved faster, her breathing ragged. The others trailed behind her, but she barely heard them. She knew exactly where she was going.
"Where are you going?" someone called after her.
"To check something."
Her boots slammed against the grating as she tore down a side passage, her fingers brushing against the familiar cold rails of the corridor. The air grew heavier the deeper she went, the hum of generators faint in the distance.
She rounded a corner and burst into a small, heavily secured room—the nursery-like chamber where Galvano's cradle was kept.
Her heart stopped.
The cradle sat in the center of the room, its metallic frame still rocking gently as if someone had just been there.
It was empty.
Mora staggered forward, her breath catching in her throat.
"No… no, no, no!" she whispered, hands gripping the edge of the cradle until her knuckles turned white.
Behind her, two of the others caught up, freezing in the doorway.
"Wait… where is he?" one of them asked, voice trembling.
Mora's eyes darted wildly around the room, as though he might somehow be hiding in the shadows. But she knew. Deep down, she knew.
"He's gone." Her voice cracked.
Tyrone's chest rose and fell slowly as he crawled on his belly through the cramped ceiling space, the dust clogging his throat. Every creak of the metal above him felt like a gunshot in the silence.
Below, the muffled sound of boots echoed—heavy, deliberate steps. The policemen carried their captive down the hall, the rhythmic jangle of keys and gear clinking at their belts.
Tyrone kept pace above them, muscles tense, moving inch by inch.
Stay quiet… he told himself, peering through the thin slits in the vent cover. He caught sight of them entering a wide room at the end of the corridor. In the center was a large industrial elevator, its grated doors groaning open.
He waited.
The moment they stepped inside, Tyrone lowered himself carefully, bracing his hands against the beams. His boots barely touched the floor as he dropped down soundlessly, landing in the shadow behind a tall stack of crates.
The elevator door began to slide shut.
He sprinted—silent but swift—and slipped inside just before the gate clanged closed, ducking behind an emergency panel. The men didn't notice; they were too busy adjusting the unconscious figure they carried.
The lift rumbled downward, its chains grinding. Tyrone's eyes never left his teammate.
When the elevator finally groaned to a halt, the policemen stepped out into an underground facility lit by flickering fluorescent tubes. Tyrone didn't follow them on foot—not directly. He spotted a ventilation duct to the side, its cover hanging loose.
Perfect.
He slipped inside, the metal biting at his elbows as he crawled forward. The air was warmer down here, thick with a faint chemical smell. Through the vent grating ahead, he could see them passing through another set of heavy security doors.
Tyrone clenched his jaw. I'm right behind you.
Tyrone crept forward, his breath slow and silent as he peered through the duct's grating.
The policemen stood before a massive steel door, blackened and scarred as if it had been pulled from the wreckage of some ancient fire. Strange, jagged symbols were etched into it—marks that looked less like carvings and more like deep claw gashes.
One officer stepped to a panel on the wall and keyed in a sequence. The door gave a long, mechanical hiss as a thin red outline glowed around its frame.
Then, in eerie synchronization, the policemen raised their right fists to their chests, bowed their heads, and spoke."Oh, Great Fallen."The words seemed to vibrate through the metal duct, low and unnatural.
Tyrone's eyes narrowed. What the hell…?
The steel slowly ground open, revealing a void so black it seemed to swallow the corridor's dim light. A wave of cold air swept out, prickling his skin.
The policemen didn't hesitate—they stepped inside, their boots clanging against something unseen.
Tyrone's instincts screamed. He popped the duct cover loose, letting it drop with a soft clatter, and dropped to the floor. His feet hit silently.
He sprinted toward the narrowing gap. "Come on… come on—"
But just as his hand reached out, the massive door sealed shut with a deafening thunk. The red light along its edge went dark.
He pressed his palms to the cold steel. Nothing. No sound from within. No movement. Just silence.
Tyrone swallowed hard. He wasn't getting in this way.
Tyrone's pulse thundered in his ears as he searched for any access panel, keypad, or vent that could get him through the steel slab. No luck. He stepped back, muttering under his breath, "There's gotta be a way in…"
Then—without warning—a faint click echoed.
The red outline flickered back to life, and the door hissed open. Tyrone froze, staring into the yawning darkness beyond. No footsteps. No voices. Just… emptiness.
This is a trap, his gut whispered.But curiosity and desperation shoved that voice aside.
He stepped through.
Inside, the air was sterile, heavy with the stench of disinfectant. Rows of old surgical lamps hung from the ceiling, their chrome rusted. A cracked gurney sat in the middle of the room, straps dangling limply, as if something—or someone—had been there not long ago.
"Where the hell…?" Tyrone muttered, scanning the corners. The shadows clung too tightly to the walls, swallowing the weak light.
It was nothing. Completely deserted.
His stomach knotted. This doesn't make sense.
He turned toward the doorway—
—and froze.
A hand had settled on his shoulder. Cold. Firm.
Every instinct screamed at him to move, but his limbs felt anchored. Slowly, mechanically, he turned his head.
The figure stood there. That same dark, faceless silhouette he'd glimpsed once before—only now, it was close enough for him to see the outline of its lips curl upward.
"What's the rush?" it said softly.
Its voice was calm, almost amused… but underneath was something else. Something hollow and endless.
Tyrone's mouth went dry.
The door slid shut behind them with a final, sealing thud.