The sound came again—metal striking metal, sharp enough to slice through the night air.
Palo didn't look back.
He didn't need to.
Ash grabbed his sleeve—not tightly, not painfully, just enough to pull him toward the narrowest alley between two rusted buildings.
"This way," Ash muttered.
They sprinted through the dark passage, footsteps echoing off the worn concrete. The alley twisted sharply, then sloped downhill toward a network of old pipes running through Eastward like exposed veins.
Above them, another pair of footsteps followed—lighter, faster, matching their pace with terrifying precision.
Palo's lungs burned. "Who—who's chasing us?"
"Not now," Ash said.
"But—"
"Keep running."
So Palo did.
He stumbled across loose gravel, nearly falling as they reached a section of broken pavement. Ash steadied him with one quick hand before letting go. There was no time for more.
A shadow darted across the rooftop to their right.
Palo's breath hitched. "Ash!"
"I see it," Ash said, voice tight.
They cut down another alley, then another—Ash always choosing the narrowest paths, as if the geometry of Eastward was printed inside his mind. Palo recognized some of the shortcuts, but Ash moved as if he had walked them a hundred times.
They reached a stretch of old brick walls where the pipes dripped rust and warm moisture onto the ground.
Palo gasped for air, bracing himself against a wall. "We're not— outrunning—whoever that is."
"We don't need to outrun them," Ash said, eyes scanning the rooftops. "We need to make them lose sight of us."
"How?" Palo demanded.
Ash pointed toward a rusted maintenance hatch on the ground, partially concealed by broken boards.
"You want us to go in there?" Palo asked.
"It's better than being caught out here."
Palo swallowed hard, then knelt beside Ash as he pried open the hatch with surprising strength. A draft of warm, metallic air rose from below.
Ash climbed down first, motioning for Palo to follow.
"Hurry," he whispered.
Palo lowered himself carefully, gripping the old ladder. When his feet touched the ground, Ash closed the hatch overhead, plunging them into near darkness.
They were underground.
The sound of the city above faded into muffled thumps and distant pipes hissing. The air was thick with humidity and the faint scent of oil.
Palo leaned against the wall, trying to steady his breathing. "Where… are we?"
Ash took a few steps forward, checking the path with his foot before speaking.
"The old service tunnels," he said. "Most people don't know about them anymore. They were abandoned years ago."
"How do you know about them?" Palo asked.
Ash hesitated. "My mother used to take us here."
There it was again.
His mother.
Always his mother.
But Palo couldn't press—not yet.
He felt his heartbeat slowing, though a cold edge of fear still clung to him.
"Do you think we lost whoever was following us?" Palo asked.
"Yes," Ash said immediately.
But the slight tremor in his voice revealed the truth:
He wasn't certain.
They walked deeper into the tunnel, footsteps echoing softly. The faint amber glow of a single maintenance lamp flickered overhead, revealing cracked walls covered in peeling paint.
Palo kept glancing behind them.
"You're sure no one else knows about these tunnels?" he asked.
"Nobody who's alive," Ash said under his breath.
Palo stopped walking.
"…What does that mean?"
Ash turned, face half-lit by the dying lamp.
"It means people who knew about this place were part of things we shouldn't be standing in the middle of."
Palo felt a knot tighten in his stomach. "Ash… tell me the truth. Who was following us?"
Ash looked at him for a long moment, as if weighing how much Palo could handle.
"They're called Observers," Ash finally said.
Palo frowned. "Observers of what?"
"People like you."
That answer chilled him deeper than the darkness around them.
"What do you mean people like me?" Palo pressed. "I'm not—special. I don't even know what's going on!"
Ash stepped closer, voice low, steady, almost too calm.
"Palo, you drew something when you were seven that connected you to my mother's research. That drawing wasn't a fantasy. It was a design—one she had been studying."
"But I didn't know any of that," Palo argued.
"That's the point," Ash said.
Palo stared at the crumpled drawing in his hand, suddenly afraid to look at it again.
"Ash… what did your mother do?"
Ash's expression dimmed, a shadow crossing over his features.
"She was a researcher," he said. "A brilliant one. But she discovered something she shouldn't have. Something about the organization she worked for."
"What kind of organization?"
Ash shook his head. "Not yet. Not until I'm sure you're safe."
Palo's frustration flared. "How can I be safe if I don't even know what's going on?"
Ash opened his mouth, but before he could respond—
A sound echoed through the tunnel.
Soft.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Footsteps.
Not above them.
Behind them.
Palo went cold.
Ash's eyes widened—not with fear, but with recognition.
"No," he whispered. "Not here."
The footsteps drew closer, too controlled to be accidental.
Palo stepped back. "Ash?"
Ash grabbed his wrist—not to pull him, but to anchor him.
"I'm going to tell you something," Ash whispered, voice tight. "And I need you to believe me."
Palo swallowed. "What?"
Ash met his eyes, the dim light reflecting a desperation Palo had never seen in him before.
"My mother didn't find you by accident," he said. "She saved you."
Footsteps grew louder.
Ash pulled him forward, urgency in every movement.
"And now," he said quietly, "I have to do the same."