In a crowded subway station, people brushed past one another, lost in their own hurried worlds. The air was thick with motion — the press of damp coats, the hiss of wet shoes on tile, and the constant hum of conversation muffled by the roar of distant trains. Those descending from above carried the storm with them. Their coats were heavy with rain, umbrellas dripping trails of water onto the grimy floor, each drop echoing faintly in the underpass.
The rhythm of the city pulsed through the tunnels — a heartbeat of machinery and indifference.
Among the throng, a young man walked with his head down, shoulders slightly hunched, as if the weight of unseen eyes pressed upon him. He moved carefully, avoiding collisions, his steps uncertain yet purposeful. Around his neck hung an internship ID, the laminate glinting faintly under the pale fluorescent light. St. Martin Memorial Hospital — Michael Corvin.
His hair was wet with rainwater, dark strands clinging to his forehead. Droplets slid down his temples, falling onto the collar of his black coat. The coat itself — simple was civilian and ordinary — it was streaked with faint stains of the downpour outside. The air clung cold to his skin, and the hum of electric lights filled the silence between the rushes of passing trains.
He moved through the press of bodies like a shadow, his gaze low until a sudden, inexplicable sensation crawled up the back of his neck — the kind of instinctual chill that told him someone was watching him.
His head lifted slightly, eyes scanning the shifting sea of strangers.
And then he saw her.
A woman. Standing perfectly still at the far end of the platform, wrapped in a dark trench coat that shimmered faintly under the station's flickering lights. Her presence was magnetic — calm, composed and out of place among the restless commuters. Her hair was dark, her expression unreadable. For an instant, her gaze found his, piercing and deliberate.
Their eyes met.
Then, just as suddenly, she turned away, stepping behind one of the massive concrete columns, her form vanishing like smoke.
Michael frowned, unsettled. The brief contact lingered in his thoughts like a shadow he couldn't shake. But before he could dwell on it further, the loud metallic shriek of an approaching train filled the tunnel. Lights flashed, wind surged through the platform, and the sound of screeching brakes drowned out the murmuring of the crowd.
Without hesitation, Michael boarded, slipping through the opening doors and past the flow of passengers stepping out.
He didn't see the two figures pushing their way through the mob behind him.
One was lean, swift, and tense — his eyes darting like a predator's as he scanned the platform. The other was a towering figure, broad-shouldered and immense, with skin the color of dark mahogany. Rainwater still glistened on his bald head, trickling down the angular lines of his face. His heavy coat swayed with his movements, brown and frayed at the seams.
The smaller figure darted onto the train just before the doors shut. The larger man stopped short, standing still amidst the chaos of motion, his breath steady. He scanned the station like a soldier scenting danger in the wind. Then, without warning, he reached beneath his coat — and drew assault rifles.
He shouted something, his voice lost beneath the station's noise. Then came the sound that changed everything.
DADADADADADADADADA—!
Gunfire tore through the air like thunder.
Screams erupted. The crowd scattered in every direction, a living tide of panic. Shards of glass exploded from nearby signs, raining down across the tiled floor. The metallic scent of blood and gunpowder mingled instantly, thick and acrid.
From across the platform, gunfire answered.
DADA—DADA—DADADAA.
It was the woman — the one who had been watching Micheal Corvin. She moved like a phantom through the chaos, trench coat swirling as she drew her weapon. Her shots cracked with precision, each one echoing louder than the last. The recoil barely shifted her arms. Her rounds — heavy, unnatural slugs — struck the large man's cover with bone-shattering force, sending fragments of stone into the air.
She wasn't alone. Another man emerged from behind a beam, crouching low as he returned fire beside her.
The one who had boarded the train turned away from Michael's car window and opened fire from inside, rounds tearing through the glass, spraying sparks and fragments into the platform.
DADADADADADADADADA!
The large man roared, taking cover behind a concrete pillar, returning fire with savage intensity. Each shot he fired felt heavy and brutal. His eyes, visible through the flashes, were filled with something primal — rage, hatred, ... or hunger.
One of the woman's allies fell, bullets slamming into his chest.
Thud!!!
He hit the ground hard. She turned toward him, eyes narrowing, as something strange began to happen.
Purple light pulsed beneath his skin. His veins glowed faintly, spreading like cracks of lightning. Then his flesh began to rot, crumbling and collapsing in on itself as if his body was disintegrating from within.
The woman watched, expression unreadable it was not horror or grief. Just cold recognition. She exhaled, steadied herself, and drew a second pistol.
DADA—DADA—DADA!
From the stairwell came another figure — a man in damp clothing descending fast, weapon drawn.
Reinforcement.
The woman stepped boldly into the open, both pistols blazing. Her rounds hit true — chest, shoulder and legs.
"ARGH!"
The smaller man — the one from the train — screamed in pain as he fell, blood spilling across the floor. But impossibly, he rose again, half-limping, half-running. His wounds smoked faintly, knitting around the edges.
Ignoring the bullets slamming into him, he leapt off the platform and disappeared into the black maw of the subway tunnel.
The woman gave chase, her expression unreadable but her movements were precise. She stooped long enough to grab a small metallic device — a camera — from the ground before dropping onto the tracks after him.
Behind her, the large gunman and her newly arrived ally continued their duel.
By now, the screaming had stopped. Those who survived had fled — others hid in the train cars, shivering behind seats. The air was thick with the tang of ozone and blood.
Michael corvin remained.
Kneeling beside a wounded woman, he pressed his coat against her shoulder, trying to stem the bleeding. "You're gonna be okay," he said quietly, voice shaking. "Just—just hang on."
Gunfire echoed again — DADADADADA—!
The large man had taken refuge inside the train, firing through shattered glass as the lone gunman approached.
Click. Click.
Empty.
The big man cursed under his breath, tossing his pistols aside. Then he ran — his heavy boots pounding through the metal cars. The people hiding inside screamed as he smashed through a locked door with inhuman strength, tearing it from its hinges.
His pursuer followed without hesitation, chasing him into the dark. Their footsteps and gunfire faded down the tunnels until all that remained was the faint hum of electricity and the hiss of steam.
The subway was silent again.
Broken glass, blood, and the smell of cordite hung in the air like ghosts.
Unbeknownst to them, a third presence lingered somewhere watching.