The tunnel closed in around him.
Not literally—the space hadn't changed—but every meter he crawled, it felt smaller.
The walls were too close. The ceiling brushed his back whenever he shifted. His bare elbows scraped against the ridged floor, leaving faint trails of skin and warmth behind. The gel had dried in patches, turning tacky, and every movement pulled it tight across his ribs and spine.
His breathing grew louder.
Not faster. Just louder. Echoing off the walls. Feeding back into his ears with every exhale.
He tried to stay calm. Kept his pace steady. One knee. One hand. Pull forward. Slide.
The dark was absolute.
Even the faint light from the chamber had vanished behind him. His fingers became his eyes—probing each contour, each bolt, each shift in the paneling. Some sections were smooth, others rough with corrosion. The metal groaned faintly under his weight, but held.
Then something hissed.
He froze.
It wasn't loud. Just a soft release of pressure. Maybe from a pipe. Maybe from something else.
He waited, every muscle tensed, head bowed in the dark.
Nothing followed.
After a few seconds, he moved again. Slower this time. Mind racing faster than his limbs.
The passage dipped slightly.
He adjusted his posture, lowering his body until his chest was nearly flush with the floor. His toes pushed forward, and he inched down the decline with slow, careful jerks.
His stomach growled—first faintly, then with insistence. A deep, twisting ache reminded him of his body's other needs.
Water. Food. Warmth.
But first—out.
Out of this passage. Out of this trap of silence and steel. Somewhere ahead, there had to be something. A hatch. A chamber. A junction.
He kept crawling.
Something shifted.
He didn't see it—there was still no light—but his senses caught it all the same.
The temperature.
It rose. Not by much. Just a degree or two. But after crawling through cold steel long enough to forget warmth entirely, the change hit him like a whisper in his skin.
He stopped. Placed a hand against the wall.
Yes. Warmer. Slightly.
And the air…
Still stale. Still metallic. But now it carried something else—a trace of motion. Barely enough to register. A current. A breath of circulation.
Not wind. Not a draft. But airflow. Mechanically generated.
Something ahead was alive. Or had power. Or remembered how to move.
He pressed on, hope sharpening into alertness.
Each motion now came with more urgency. Not recklessness—but focus. His arms burned from supporting his weight, and his knees protested each crawl, but he pushed forward with new resolve.
The floor changed texture.
The transition was subtle: from the rough, ribbed plates of a utility shaft to smoother, flatter segments. Less grime. Fewer protrusions. His fingers brushed something rounded—pipes, maybe. Sealed conduits embedded into the wall.
And then, he heard it.
A soft, intermittent rhythm.
Thunk… pause… whir… pause… thunk.
Machinery.
Old. Struggling. Not fully awake—but working.
He breathed deeply, steadying himself.
It wasn't safety.
But it was a sign.
He crawled toward it.
The tunnel opened—abruptly.
One moment he was crawling through narrow metal ribs, the next his hand struck empty space. He froze, arm extended into a void.
Slowly, he leaned forward, inch by inch, until his head cleared the lip of the tunnel.
Still no light. But space.
He reached further.
The floor dipped downward in a steep, short slope—maybe half a meter—then flattened into something broader, smoother.
He let himself slide forward, controlling the descent with his elbows. His body followed with a wet scrape and a grunt as he rolled into the new space.
He lay there a moment. Breathing. Listening.
The silence here wasn't absolute. There was a hum—low, buried, but constant.
And from somewhere above… a faint pulsing. A light. Dim, red. Blinking every few seconds, casting shallow shadows across the metal ceiling.
It wasn't enough to see the room. But enough to see that it was a room.
He sat up slowly, joints cracking.
The chamber felt larger than the crawlspace—rectangular, maybe five meters across. No furniture. No terminals. Just exposed pipes overhead and grates underfoot. A maintenance bay? An access station?
His eyes adjusted to the rhythm of the blinking light.
On every pulse, he glimpsed more: a ladder recessed into a wall, a narrow hatch overhead, a tangle of cables across the far end.
No signs of life.
But not abandoned either.
He took another breath.
The air tasted cleaner here. Circulated. Treated. Not fresh—but less dead.
He rose to his feet, unsteady but upright.
And then he turned toward the blinking light.
It was mounted just above the ladder. And beneath it, etched into the metal, a symbol.
A triangle, nested inside a circle. Familiar. Repeated.
The same as the one he saw before.
This place had rules. A language. A system.
And somewhere inside it… answers.
The ladder was cold.
His fingers curled around the rungs, metal biting into the joints where skin split and gel had dried. He gritted his teeth, anchored one foot, then pulled himself up—slowly, carefully.
Each movement brought a fresh protest from his body. His shoulders burned. His thighs trembled. But he climbed.
Six rungs.
Eight.
At the top, a circular hatch.
He braced himself, pushed.
It resisted—seized in its housing after who knew how long without motion. He pressed harder, both palms flat against the cold metal, arms shaking. A dull creak echoed into the chamber below. Then, with a grinding snap, the hatch shifted upward and slid open a few centimeters.
Stale air poured down like a sigh.
He shoved it fully aside, then hauled himself through, rolling onto the floor above. He lay there, panting, one arm across his chest, blinking into the dark.
It was… larger.
The new space felt like a corridor. Wide. Not as cramped. The floor beneath him was textured, lined with inset guide tracks. Overhead, broken light panels stared down like dead eyes. Some had collapsed, wires dangling like vines.
He rose to his knees.
Something about this space felt different. Not just size—purpose. It was a part of the structure meant to be used. Moved through. Lived in.
He crawled forward on hands and knees until he reached a bulkhead on the left wall.
A panel. Dark, cracked.
And just beside it… another blinking light.
Red. Steady.
His breath caught.
Third time.
That symbol again.
He reached out, fingers hovering just above it.
Then stopped.
Not yet.
First, he needed to know what this place was.
And why the fuck he was in it.
He stayed still for a few seconds after the thought crossed his mind.
Yeah. Why the fuck was he in it?
This place.
This dead maze of corridors and forgotten systems.
Whatever it had once been, it clearly wasn't meant for him. And yet, here he was—crawling through its ribs like a parasite in a long-dead beast.
He exhaled through his nose, steadying himself, then pushed off the floor. He could always think about that later.
His knees cracked. His spine ached. But he was upright.
The blinking light on the wall continued its slow, steady rhythm. The panel beneath it offered no prompts, no buttons, no clear purpose.
He moved past it for now, following the hallway's curve to the right.
The floor dipped slightly. The texture underfoot changed—metal grate giving way to smooth plating. On the left wall, a long sealed conduit stretched into the shadows. On the right, what looked like an equipment locker, or maybe a storage bay, its access door left ajar.
He stopped. Reached out.
The panel resisted at first, but then gave way with a soft clack. The hatch swung open on rusted hinges.
Inside: nothing remarkable. Just dust. Debris. But at the bottom—an object.
He reached in and pulled it out slowly.
A metal bar. Lightweight. Hollow. About the length of his forearm. A multi-tool maybe? A pry rod? The surface was scarred, but intact. One end was flattened; the other curved into a slight hook. It did kind of look similar to a crowbar in his mind.
He turned it in his hands.
Not much. But better than nothing.
He tested the weight, gave it a light swing. It was balanced enough.
With a faint grunt, he tucked it under his arm and kept walking.
A corridor like this had to lead somewhere.
The corridor stretched ahead, curving gently left—then again.
He walked slowly now. Each footstep echoed faintly in the cold stillness. His new tool rested against his shoulder, one hand ready to swing if something—anything—moved.
But nothing did.
The only sound was the hum of buried power, the low pulse of ancient systems still clinging to inertia. The faint red lights blinked at intervals along the ceiling, casting just enough illumination to outline his path.
Then, he saw it.
A doorway—half-open.
Not sealed. Not broken. Just… ajar.
A sliver of shadow waited beyond it. No light. No sound.
He stopped a few steps short, head tilting slightly.
The air here was different. Still metallic. Still dry.
But beneath it, something else. A faint chemical scent. Not smoke. Not rot.
Old.
He tightened his grip on the bar.
Whatever was in there—it hadn't been disturbed in a long time.
He stepped forward.