The spiral symbol lingered in Rotham's mind like a ghost refusing to be forgotten.
He pressed onward, drawn toward a side corridor marked with flickering emergency lights. The station's faint power grid was failing fast, each glow a fleeting heartbeat against the growing darkness.
Rotham's boots clanked against the metal floor as he rounded a corner and stopped short.
On the wall before him was the same spiral — larger, carved deeper, almost glowing faintly in the dim light.
Beneath it, a single word was etched in bold, deliberate strokes:
RETURN.
He swallowed hard. This was no random graffiti. It was a message — a warning or a promise.
His fingers hovered over the mark, feeling the cool metal beneath his glove.
A sudden vibration pulsed through the station, subtle but unmistakable. The walls seemed to hum in response, alive in a way Rotham hadn't expected.
From deep within the darkness, a faint voice whispered — unintelligible yet hauntingly familiar.
Rotham's breath caught.
Was the station trying to speak? Or was it his own mind unraveling?
He wasn't sure.
But one thing was clear: the past here was not dead. It was waiting.