The train tore through the underground tunnels, steel wheels shrieking over rails that had been sleeping for decades. Above, a single strip of dim bulbs flickered past in steady rhythm, each flash carving the shadows into brief, sharp relief.
Mikey sat pressed against the window, eyes wide. "Is this from the Old Age?" he asked, leaning toward Bobo.
Bobo arched a brow.
"Old Age?"
"Yeah—the Old Age. Before the Council."
Realization dawned on Bobo's face.
"Oh… yeah. It is, kid."
Mikey let out a soft chuckle, still staring at the blur of stone and light.
"So… your HQ is underground?"
Bobo gave a tired exhale, leaning back.
"I know you got a lotta questions, but I'm running on fumes. You'll see it all in time."
"Just listen," Ryosuke said quietly from across the aisle.
Mikey shut his mouth and did as told. He closed his eyes. The train's rhythm filled him—the steady chug and chew of the wheels, the deep, aching groan of old metal being pushed harder than it wanted to go. The air rushed past, cool and restless, smelling faintly of dust and rust.
And then… another sound. At first, it was faint—like water dripping in a cave. Slowly, it grew louder, building into a steady pour, like a pitcher emptying over stone.
He inhaled and caught it—the tang of salt.
Mikey's eyes snapped open.
Along the tunnel walls, dark water spilled from cracks and seams, running in glistening rivulets. The overhead lights reflected off the moving surface, scattering yellow-gold fragments across the wet stone. It looked like the ceiling itself was holding a night sky, every drop a trembling star sliding down to vanish into the black.
On either side of the tracks, shallow stone channels ran like narrow rivers, carrying water in a steady, glittering flow. Here and there, figures stood on the gravel banks, buckets in hand, scooping the stream into worn metal pails. Their movements were unhurried but practiced—this was a ritual, not a rush.
As the train roared past, the workers glanced up, raising two fingers in a quick, sharp salute.
Bobo returned it instantly, as did Ryosuke and even Luce, her hands steady on the controls. Amelia didn't notice—her gaze was fixed somewhere far beyond the glass, thoughts clearly pulling her away from the present.
Mikey almost opened his mouth to fire off another question to Bobo, but then remembered the man's earlier warning. He swallowed it down, deciding against the barrage. Instead, he grabbed the overhead rail and made his way to the front of the train, balancing with each jolt until he slid into the seat beside Luce.
She glanced over, her mouth tugging in a faint smirk.
"Oh, it's you. Need something, Mikey?"
"Nah," he said, leaning forward to look out through the front glass. "Just wanted to see the view from here."
"It's nice, right? Different from what you're used to, I bet."
"Oh, totally. The Capital was all chrome and glass. Cold. This…" He gestured at the rushing dark ahead. "This feels alive. Different. Real in a way."
Luce gave a small nod.
"I can imagine."
Mikey chuckled under his breath.
"Yeah."
The train clattered on, its headlight slicing through the tunnel ahead. His eyes drifted to the sides again, to the endless trickle of water.
"What's with the water?"
Luce flicked a glance at him, then returned to watching the rails.
"That's our supply. We tapped old ocean pipelines just above this tunnel—cut 'em and let the water flow down here. It runs along the stone, into those collection divots. Then our people scoop it up."
"You drink ocean water?"
"Not raw," she said with a short laugh. "We purify it."
"How?"
"Boil it. Nothing fancy, but it works."
"Ahh…" Mikey nodded, standing again.
Bobo brushed past him, muttering, "'Scuse me, kiddo," before sliding into the seat beside Luce. Ryosuke soon followed, moving up front to join them in quiet conversation.
Mikey didn't bother to listen. He headed for the back instead, dropping into a seat opposite Amelia.
They sat across from each other in silence, neither one acknowledging the other at first. The hum of the train filled the space between them, joined by the steady clatter of steel on steel.
It wasn't until Mikey shifted in his seat that their eyes briefly met—just a flicker of recognition before both quickly looked away, each slouching deeper into their respective corners.
Mikey began tapping his foot, the sound soft but persistent, a nervous drumbeat. He whistled under his breath, a tuneless attempt to push the awkwardness out of the air.
Amelia let out a slow, heavy sigh and tilted her head back to stare at the riveted metal ceiling.
The train rattled on.
Mikey's foot started tapping faster. He cleared his throat without looking at her, the quiet gnawing at him like an itch.
I get she's mad at me, but holy hell…
I can't even talk to her.
She's kinda scary...
He risked a glance. Her face was turned slightly toward the aisle, catching the passing tunnel lights in sharp, rhythmic flashes. Those cold blue eyes weren't on him—they were fixed somewhere above, lost in thought. Her long, midnight-black hair was caught in the faint rush of wind slipping through the cart, strands lifting and falling with each bump of the tracks.
Mikey swallowed and forced his eyes away.
Hard to believe she's Nadia…
I mean, that night she was different.
Softer.
Maybe she just needs a conversation…
Yeah. Then she'll forgive me.
I bet she's actually really sweet.
He took in a quiet breath, straightened in his seat, and tried.
"Ahem… I think—"
"Can it," Amelia cut in, not even looking at him.
"But—"
"Nope."
Mikey froze.
I was wrong...
...petty bitch.
From the front of the train, Luce's voice carried back over the rumble of the tracks.
"Almost there!"
She twisted the dial on the slim radio strapped to her wrist, bringing it up to her mouth.
"Luciana Corrine on the line—Hit Squad Savior. Requesting gate access, Portal Thirty-Two. Over."
A faint crackle answered, followed by a man's voice—steady, official.
"Luciana Corrine of Hit Squad Savior, we read you. Opening Portal Thirty-Two for entry. Over."
"Appreciate it. Coming in. Over."
Mikey pressed closer to the window. The tunnel around them was changing—narrow stone walls giving way to a yawning, open space. It wasn't just a tunnel anymore; it was becoming a cavern, the walls pulling back until they vanished into darkness.
At the far end, a colossal metal gate loomed—red-stained, octagonal, with a massive white 32 stenciled dead center. The thing looked ancient, like it had been pried from the bones of some forgotten warship.
A deep mechanical whine filled the cavern as the seam down the middle split apart. The two halves groaned outward, disappearing into the rock.
The train surged forward.
Mikey's gaze dropped—and his stomach flipped. The tracks were no longer set on gravel, but on a suspended bridge, stretching across an endless, lightless chasm.
"Holy shit—we're high," he muttered, instinctively leaning back from the glass.
Then he looked up… and froze.
Dozens of tracks—thirty, forty, maybe more—radiated outward from other gates in the cavern walls, each marked with a different number. Every track fed into a single, impossible structure at the center: a colossal cylindrical tower, as wide as a city block, rising from the depths and disappearing into the shadows above.
The tower wasn't solid—it was alive with motion. Multi-tiered platforms and docking bays spiraled its outer shell, alive with the hum of machinery, the shuffle of workers, and the faint glow of lanterns and electric strips. Yellow light poured from the structure's levels, painting the cavern walls in a warm, industrial haze.
Mikey craned his neck, following it up—and realized there was no sky here. The top was sealed, a metal cap over the entire sinkhole. They were deep underground.
Bobo stepped up beside him, giving him a solid clap on the back.
"There's your answers, kid."
Mikey's jaw stayed slack.
"Yeah… thanks, Bobo. Oh my god…"
The train rumbled on, the great cylinder growing larger and larger, until it filled Mikey's entire view.
The train shot across the bridge, the vast red gate shrinking behind them until it was swallowed by darkness. The cylindrical tower at the center of the cavern grew impossibly large, its tiers resolving into balconies, catwalks, and docking platforms jutting out like ribs.
The noise reached them first—low, thrumming machinery that seemed to vibrate in Mikey's bones. Then came the rest: shouted orders echoing off metal walls, the clang of tools striking steel, and the hiss of steam venting from pipes thicker than a man's torso.
As they drew closer, Mikey spotted people moving along the outer levels—tiny at first, then larger as the train neared the docking ring. Men and women in patchwork uniforms hauled crates, wheeled carts, and hoisted supplies into lifts. Others stood guard at the edges, rifles slung over their shoulders, eyes scanning the incoming trains.
The smell hit next—a mix of hot metal, machine oil, sweat, and something faintly herbal, like someone had tried to mask the industrial tang with burning sage.
Yellow lanterns lined the docking bay, their glow catching in the hanging steam, turning the air into a shifting haze.
The train's brakes screeched, sparks flickering along the wheels as it slowed. Mikey leaned forward, palms on the glass, as the front of the train aligned with a platform that curved to meet it.
A giant set of brass doors marked Dock 32 loomed ahead. Above them, in flaking black paint, someone had scrawled a motto:
"From the Depths, We Rise."
The platform was alive with motion—mechanics swarming the train's underside, a man with a clipboard barking arrival logs, a group of workers rolling a massive steel drum down the ramp.
The train came to a halt with a shudder. The cabin filled with the metallic click of locks disengaging as Luce powered down the engine.
Ryosuke stepped to him.
"This is our headquarters, boy."
Mikey stood, eyes wide, still drinking in the impossible sight beyond the glass.
"This is… underground?"
"Yeah," Bobo said with a smirk, already stepping toward the doors. "Told you—you'd see everything in time."
The side doors hissed open, and heat rolled in from the platform, carrying the scent of oil and steam. Mikey followed the others out, his boots hitting the warm steel deck. He tilted his head back, staring up the spiraling tower until his neck ached.
The whole place felt like the beating heart of a hidden world—old, alive, and ready to swallow him whole.