The tunnel stretched on for what felt like hours, their footsteps echoing in the darkness like a metronome counting down to something inevitable. Henrik's breathing had steadied, but it was labored. Rhett could feel the tremor in his shoulders, the way his weight shifted more heavily against him with each step.
They didn't have to run anymore. No one was on their heels, and the tunnels seemed empty of any immediate danger. The only movements Rhett witnessed were the scramblings of rats or cockroaches when they got close—ordinary vermin scavenging in the ruins of civilization.
It was then that Rhett realized that he was seriously hungry. His stomach growled like a beast, reminding him that he had not eaten for over a day. What would happen if he died from starvation? Was it like drowning or hypothermia, where with nothing in his stomach, would his guts just self-cannibalize themselves for all eternity?
That chilling thought propelled him to move slightly faster. They had to leave here as fast as possible.
"Do you know where we're going?" Henrik asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.
Rhett's jaw tightened. "I thought you had this figured out."
"I knew the left tunnel would lead to the front outskirts—out of the city." Henrik spoke as he coughed weakly, each word seeming to cost him effort. "But I didn't bother learning where the right leads. Never expected to still be stuck in this damn place."
Rhett sighed, understanding flooding through him. Facing off with the Beastmaster had not been part of their plan, and Seraphine's ice barrage had essentially forced them to take the other tunnel out. Henrik's tactical mind had been disrupted by chaos, and now he was paying for it.
"If the left takes us out of the city, the right would logically take us deeper," Henrik muttered, and Rhett could hear the defeat creeping into his voice. That brief spark of hope when he'd thought they were escaping this hellhole—it was gone now, extinguished like a candle in the wind.
"We'll find a way," Rhett said, trying to inject confidence he didn't feel. "I'll help you get out, and you'll help me find my people. Deal?"
Henrik turned his head slightly, studying Rhett's face in the dim light. There was still distrust there, but something else too—a grudging respect, maybe. "Deal," he said finally, his voice hollow. "But we'll have to head to my base first. I need treatment for... everything."
"Then let's get moving." Rhett picked up the pace, and gradually the stale tunnel air began to change. Something else was mixing in—the scent of rain, maybe, or wet concrete. The kind of smell that meant they were getting closer to the surface.
The tunnel was definitely sloping upward now, and the air was getting fresher. Somewhere ahead, there was an exit.
Light appeared—just a faint glow at the far end of the tunnel, pale and wavering. But it was different from the emergency lighting they'd grown accustomed to. This was natural light, filtered through clouds and grime but unmistakably real.
Rhett wondered how much time had passed. When Henrik had begun his Bait plan, it had been early morning, the sun just breaking the horizon. A few hours must have passed since then. It had to be around noon now, though the perpetual overcast made it hard to tell.
They finally reached the stairwell. Each step upward echoed hollowly on the tiles, the sound bouncing off cracked ceramic walls where advertisements for long-defunct businesses still clung in faded, peeling strips. Promises of sales and services that would never come again.
The handrail felt gritty beneath Rhett's palm—a mixture of rust flakes and accumulated dust that hadn't been disturbed in weeks. The exit grating cast a grid of shadows across the final steps. Through the metal bars, he could see fragments of the world above: a slice of gray sky between buildings, the corner of a traffic light that would never change again, the edge of a street sign tilted at an odd angle.
The wind blew again, cold and slightly wet. From the gray sky, Rhett could tell it was about to rain. The weather matched his mood perfectly—grim and unpredictable.
Rhett pushed against the heavy grating. It groaned on hinges that protested with the voice of rusted metal, then swung open with a suddenness that made him stumble forward into the abandoned street.
"Oi, Daimon, looks like we've got some visitors."
The gruff voice froze Rhett in place. Henrik stiffened against him, and Rhett could feel the tension radiating from his comrade's body.
"Damn it," Henrik grunted, shifting his weight as his muscles coiled with familiar readiness. Instead of the grand black cloak that had once covered him from head to toe, he wore only ravaged pieces of black fabric that barely covered his torso—battle damage from their encounter with the BeastMaster.
Not everything needs to be a fight, Rhett thought desperately. He was exhausted, hungry, and honestly just wanted a nap and some food. Maybe these people could be reasoned with. "Look, we're not looking for trouble. We're just trying to get through."
All he heard was a harsh laugh that seemed anything but friendly as the strangers came into view. The first one was stocky with unkempt brown hair and stubble that hadn't seen a razor in weeks. His eyes were dark and already gleaming with something that made Rhett's skin crawl.
The other one stepped forward—the one who had to be Daimon. He was lanky, with pale skin stretched tight over sharp bones, and calm, cold eyes that seemed to pierce through shadows themselves. When he spoke, his voice carried an authority that felt wrong in this post-apocalyptic wasteland. "So," he said, each word measured and deliberate. "What is your cause? Heroes? Vigilantes? Villains?"
Rhett tried to keep his voice steady. "We're just survivors who haven't managed to evacuate yet. Nothing more complicated than that." He technically wasn't any of the categories Daimon had listed—just a regular guy with his own motives. Henrik was a hero, or more accurately, a deserter, but surely they wouldn't hold that against him. Right?
Daimon stepped closer, moving out of the shadows, and Rhett saw the pistol hanging at his waist. The weapon looked well-maintained, recently used. Rhett's mind automatically began calculating possibilities—escape routes, cover, how quickly he could regenerate if this went south.
"If that is so," Daimon said, raising an eyebrow with practiced menace, "where are your tributes?"
"Tribute?" Rhett asked, genuinely confused. "What's that?"
"Tribute—small gold coins you use to pay for shit around here," the stocky guy answered brashly, spitting to one side. "If you don't have tribute, you'll have to follow us to the arena to fight for your share. And who's that guy behind you? Let me see his face."
Tribute? Gold coins? They have an economy here? Rhett's mind raced. He'd assumed the villains were only about destroying everything they could see, with no further plan beyond chaos. Obviously, that had been too simple-minded. Of course there was some greater cause. But an arena? That sounded like something straight out of a gladiator movie—and not one with a happy ending.
As Rhett tried to process this revelation, Henrik stepped out from behind him, responding to the stocky guy's demand. The moment both villains saw his face clearly, their expressions shifted to recognition and something much worse.
"Argh, he's that Merger bastard," the stocky one spat, his hand already moving toward whatever weapon he carried. "You're dead meat"
"Calm down, Natos," Daimon said softly, but his eyes never left Henrik's face. There was something calculating in his gaze, like a chess player seeing three moves ahead. "I know who you are, Merger. You've killed some of mine before." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Now I return the favor."
The silence stretched between them, heavy with the promise of violence. Rhett could feel Henrik's body coiling beside him, every muscle prepared for action. The tactical genius was kicking in—Henrik was already seeing the angles, calculating the odds, making his choice.
Henrik was nothing if not decisive. To a fault.
In one fluid motion, Henrik raised his elbow high. The skin separated from the flesh with a sick, wet squelch that made Rhett's stomach turn. Black metal emerged—the barrel of a sniper rifle, integrated seamlessly into Henrik's arm through his quirk. With barely any time for Daimon to register what was happening, a bullet left the muzzle, aimed dead center at the lanky villain's chest.
Rhett blinked—literally blinked, less than a tenth of a second—and something far stranger and more terrifying materialized in his field of vision.
A towering figure, at least eight feet tall, loomed protectively in front of Daimon. It breathed, and layers of lean, dark muscle rippled throughout its body in response. Bony armor plating lined its chest, joints, and extremities like natural battle gear grown from within.
Its head was an elongated skull that seemed vaguely human but wrong on every conceivable level. Like the rest of its body, there was no skin—only bundles of coiled, dark red muscle tissue that pulsed with each heartbeat. The jaws were elongated forward, packed with far too many teeth, all visible from the outside in a permanent, horrifying grin. Its eyes were pitch black voids, as if there were no eyes at all, but Rhett instinctively felt their attention focused directly on him and Henrik.
The bullet Henrik had fired fell harmlessly to the ground with a tiny metallic clink. The creature had absorbed the impact without showing any external damage whatsoever.
Henrik's face somehow grew even paler than it already was, the blood draining from his cheeks as he stared at the manifestation of Daimon's quirk.
Daimon continued speaking as if he hadn't just been a split second away from death, his voice unnaturally calm. "Remember the last time you fought him, Natos. He's not someone to be underestimated. I'll handle the Merger myself." His lips curved into something that might have been a smile. "You can deal with his friend."
"Yeah, whatever," Natos grumbled, clearly disappointed that he wouldn't get his rematch with Henrik. He turned his attention to Rhett, and his expression made it clear he considered this a consolation prize at best.
Daimon's voice dropped to a whisper that somehow carried more menace than any shout. He looked directly at his summoned creature, and when he spoke, it was like hearing someone give orders to their own shadow. "Hitdevil. Hunt that man down."
The creature—Hitdevil—moved with inhuman speed, its massive form crouching low before launching itself toward Henrik. The sound of its claws scraping against concrete sent sparks flying through the air. Henrik's grappling hook, the same one he'd used against the BeastMaster, shot toward the wall of the tunnel's entrance. The cable yanked him forward just as Hitdevil's razor-sharp claws tore through the space where he'd been standing moments before.
Henrik skidded across the ground, stumbling as he tried to regain his balance. His stamina was severely depleted, he had multiple wounds that were still bleeding, and he hadn't eaten or drunk anything in hours. He was running on fumes and determination alone.
He wasn't going to last long against that thing.
But Rhett couldn't worry about Henrik's survival for long. He had his own problems to deal with.
Natos was advancing on him with clear intent to kill, cracking his knuckles with anticipation.
Rhett raised his hands in what he hoped was a non-threatening gesture. "Come on, can't we talk this through? I've got nothing against you personally."
Natos only smirked, and Rhett could see the exact moment the man decided talking was over. He lunged forward with surprising speed for his stocky build.
Rhett sighed deeply, bone-tired frustration washing over him. Didn't he deserve a break? Just one?
His fight with the Iron Knight seemed like a lifetime ago. Then Henrik kidnapping him, the BeastMaster battle, the confrontation with Marina and Seraphine, and now this?
Why was he always jumping from the frying pan into the fire?