6:15 p.m.

  The tunnel stretched ahead like a throat swallowing light.

  Their flashlights cast flickering beams across rusted rails and sweat-slicked concrete, and no one spoke. There was no need. The silence between them was no longer suffocating; it had matured. It wasn't the absence of connection anymore; it was the quiet of people moving with shared purpose.

  For the first time, they weren't running from something. They were moving toward something.

  The tunnel ahead curved gently, and Mike felt the group's pace naturally slow. The urgency that had driven them from the last station was settling into something more sustainable; the rhythm of people who had found their stride together.

  Dana kept near the front, her eyes sharp, breath steady. She scanned every dark corner, not from paranoia, but vigilance. Mike had earned her trust, and with it came her resolve to keep the others safe.

  Jake walked further back, quiet but not distant. His gaze tracked movement, his mind clearly turning over Mike's words from before, recalibrating what he thought he knew about everything; from the tunnels to the system that buried them.

  Eve and Eli stayed close together. Dexter walked a few steps ahead, ears perked. Even Tess was moving with more life; still silent, still grim, but no longer hollow.

  At the center of the group, Mike walked with Sam leaning heavily against him.

  It wasn't full support, but it was close. Mike had one of Sam's thick arms looped over his shoulders, his own arm around Sam's waist, keeping him steady when his legs faltered.

  Sam was clearly pushing himself. His steps were uneven but determined. There was a grit to his breathing, like a man refusing to sit down even after the war had already ended around him.

  Mike laughed. "I will have to charge you a taxi fee, you know."

  Sam chuckled, then grew quiet for a few more steps.

  Sam turned his head slightly toward him. "What about you? You military? Ex-military? Special ops maybe? I've been observing you since the train. There's something in the way you read a room. You don't flinch when it's time to fight. And you know when it's time to pull back."

  Mike kept his eyes forward. "I've seen my fair share of combat, yes."

  Another silence.

  "I was in Yemen. Somalia. Pakistan. And a few other places," Mike said, keeping his voice neutral.

  Sam nodded, accepting it. "That explains it. The way you move, the way you listen. I don't know what unit you were in, but you read rooms like a sniper."

  Mike didn't correct him. He didn't want to explain that he wasn't an army man. That he'd trained alongside soldiers but never wore their uniform. That he'd seen as much horror as any man; maybe more; but never as a fighter.

  He just said, "I've picked up a few things along the way."

  Sam smiled through the exhaustion. "Well. Then I'm glad I'm with you. With your bad luck and my lucky charm we will find a way to get us through this."

  Mike looked over at him, the faintest glint of warmth behind his tired eyes. "I'd like that."

  They walked on, the weight of the world pressing in on them. Shouldered between two tired men, both refusing to fall while the other was still standing.

  And for the first time in hours, Mike felt something settle in his chest. The strange comfort of knowing he wasn't carrying it all alone.

  And that was enough to keep moving.

  6:55 p.m.

  They walked for what felt like hours. The deeper they went, the more the tunnel changed.

  Ceilings dipped. The air thickened. Pipes protruded like broken bones from the concrete. The lights were older here; dead or dying; leaving them to their own small orbs of phone flashlights, casting long, twitching shadows against rust-stained walls.

  Then Eve's voice broke the spell.

  "Do you... do you smell that?"

  Everyone slowed. At first, it was just wrong; something that didn't belong in the metallic dampness of the tunnels. Then it separated into layers: something chemical, something organic. Something that had once been alive.

  Dana sniffed. Her lip curled in disgust. "Yeah. It sticks down here."

  She glanced toward Harrow's silhouette. "You bringing us through your dumpster collection? Or is this your idea of a charming walk in the park?"

  From the dark, Harrow chuckled. "Ladies, please. I'm many things, but I don't take my dates to the garbage pits on the first night."

  It should've lightened the mood. It didn't.

  Mike stopped. He didn't laugh. He didn't smile. He closed his eyes, and his stomach dropped. He knew that smell. Had carried it in his clothes, his hair, his nightmares for years after Somalia.

  "This isn't rot," he said quietly. "It's not waste or sewage."

  The group turned toward him, puzzled.

  Mike took a slow breath, and then his face went cold. "This is burning."

  Everyone froze.

  Burning. The word hung in the tunnel like a curse.

  The smell hit them all at once then; the full horror of it. Hair and flesh and the chemical accelerants used to make human bodies burn efficiently. It wasn't the kind of fire that warmed or protected. It was the kind that left only bones.

  Mike staggered slightly. He didn't want to remember, but it was too late. The scent triggered something deep from his thoughts. Images swam through his vision; scenes from another place, fields blackened by fire. Flesh melting off bone. Smoke curling like fingers around the dead.

  'Not now. Focus.'

  He blinked it away. "Let's keep moving. Quietly," he said, voice hollow.

  7:05 p.m.

  The smell had thickened into a second layer of skin. It clung to their clothes, their tongues, their lungs. A pungent, oily heat that filled every breath with the stench of combustion.

  Each step forward thickened the air. Eve was visibly nauseated now, her face drained of color, sweat dripping down her neck. Her sense of smell; probably more developed than the others'; made her the most revolted by the horrific scent. But the others were still trying their best not to be overwhelmed as well.

  No one talked anymore. Even Harrow looked concerned and quiet.

  Then they heard it. Weak voices in the far wind.

  "...no... please..."

  The words echoed from different locations and were difficult to pinpoint. Their voices were dry. A sound barely human anymore, likely worn thin by hours of screaming.

  Then, POP. POP.

  Gunshots.

  Everyone froze. Mike raised a hand. The group stopped behind him in near-perfect silence. Everyone understood the importance of this moment. No one dared to ask questions. No matter what was happening; no sound, no scream, no panic was allowed. Not even a breath could be heard.

  He turned slowly and eased Sam's weight off his shoulder. Dana stepped in wordlessly, slipping under Sam's arm to support him. Mike gave her a nod; just enough to mean everything; and crept forward alone.

  He moved like smoke, pressing against the wall, flashlight off. He motioned for them to kill their lights too. The world dimmed into a slow-moving hush. He slid toward the junction, the sound growing sharper now, closer. To his right, a corridor branched off just ahead. Mike reached the fork and flattened himself to the wall, peering around the edge and his blood went cold.

  Inside the branch tunnel, maybe two hundred meters away from him. The gunmen.

  Four of them stood in tactical gear, faces masked, eyes hidden behind black visors. Their rifles were raised, practiced, methodical.

  Mike's eyes flickered across the scene, horror painting his mind in stark strokes of fire and death.

  But it wasn't the gunmen who froze Mike in place. It was the rows of civilians kneeling in front of them. Too many tired faces to count, scarred by fear. Some had their eyes squeezed shut, others stared wide-eyed into the barrels of the guns. The gunmen didn't hesitate. One by one, they pulled the trigger. A flash of light. A sickening thud. Then another.

  The people didn't even get the chance to scream. Each gunshot stretched long shadows along the corridor, and blood danced and warped against the stain-smudged walls.

  And as if the execution wasn't enough, a fifth gunman appeared, suited in massive flame-resistant gear. He stepped forward as the last civilian of the first row fell dead to the floor and ignited the flamethrower on his back.

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  Mike's gut twisted so hard it hurt.

  Fire burst across the corpses in a single, sweeping arc; like a wave of wrath. The flames danced over their bodies, wrapping them in agony. Consuming the dead where they lay. Their charred flesh twisted in the air, blackening and curling in moments.

  The heat rolled toward the corridor's entrance, hitting Mike even from this distance; hot enough to singe the hair on his face.

  It was hell.

  Mike's breath left his lungs. His ears rang from the awful rhythm of this death ritual. His stomach curled inward. Memories he hoped to forget stormed at his door. His vision swam in tears. His grip on his flashlight tightened so hard he thought it might snap. His legs were shaking, but he didn't dare move.

  'Focus. Don't go under. Not now.'

  He told himself the word, again and again, like a mantra. He pressed back against the wall, forcing a breath into his chest. But something had broken open inside him.

  He had seen war. He had seen men butcher each other for less than food. But he had never seen death "celebrated" like this.

  'Focus.'

  His instincts started to kick in; the thing that had kept him alive when others died. He clenched his jaw until it hurt, trying to remind himself where he was right now. To remind himself that he had people depending on him. So he pushed the images back into their chest. And buried it deep beneath the task at hand. Buried it under the weight of the group behind him.

  'Focus.'

  Then, without warning, he felt someone beside him. He turned and there was Harrow, as if summoned by the horror itself.

  He hadn't heard him arrive. Hadn't felt him approach. The man was just there now, like he'd been part of the tunnel all along.

  His expression was unreadable. Not a trace of fear in his eyes. He stood completely unmoved by the scene in front of him. His gaze, however, was locked; intensely; on the group of gunmen.

  Mike lunged forward, grabbed Harrow by the front of his coat, and slammed him back against the tunnel wall. The impact echoed; but neither of them cared at that moment.

  "You knew," Mike said, fury and tears in his eyes.

  As Mike gripped Harrow's coat, their faces only inches apart, he found himself staring into the man's eyes. Beautiful blue eyes, deep blue that almost seemed to emit light in this dark place. Even in his rage, Mike couldn't ignore how those eyes seemed to glow with an otherworldly intensity, as if lit from within by some hidden fire.

  Harrow didn't answer right away. Just gave a small, irritating nod.

  "I knew they were in the area," Harrow replied quietly. "But I really thought they would have left this place by now."

  Mike growled. "You led us here knowing we'd see this."

  "The alternative was doubling back and walking into something even worse." Harrow's voice dropped; so quiet, it was almost kind.

  At first glance, Harrow looked carved from stone; composed, distant, and cold.

  But Mike was too close now. Close enough to catch the fracture.

  There it was: a subtle twitch in the jaw. A muscle tightening near the temple. A flicker just small enough to be seen. A crack in the mask. It passed in a blink, but Mike didn't miss it. A flash of something raw; disgust, or anger maybe.

  Whatever it was, it was proof that this wasn't Harrow's first time standing in the shadow of a massacre.

  Mike didn't know what to say. Every word felt useless against him right now.

  Finally, when his mind began to snap back to reality, he whispered, "Are we supposed to pass through this tunnel?"

  Harrow met his gaze with an almost amused expression. "Not at all," he said with a low chuckle, as if this was some absurd question. "We just need to cross its entrance. Lucky us."

  Mike's pulse drummed in his ears. He didn't want to cross it. Not with what lay beyond that entrance. But the choice was made long before they even reached this nightmare. He knew from the map in his mind that there was no other way around. And walking backward right now wouldn't bring any result. They were at the point of no return; and they had to force themselves to move forward.

  Mike eyed the distance. The entrance to the next stretch of tunnel was barely 9 meters away. A small gap. A few steps. And the gunmen were focused on their grisly task. They couldn't be spotted right now.

  But in a moment like this, even just 9 meters felt like miles. Every inch felt like crawling through the deepest part of hell.

  "You're still holding on to me," Harrow's voice broke through Mike's thoughts.

  Mike looked down at his hands. He was still gripping Harrow's jacket.

  He let go. Staggered back. Breathed like he'd just been pulled out of deep water.

  He wiped his eyes roughly with the back of his sleeve and turned away.

  "I swear to God," he whispered, voice low and tight with fury. "If you're playing us... then pray you end up like them. Because I'll make sure your death won't be half as kind."

  He didn't wait for an answer and headed for the group.

  7:10 p.m.

  He turned to the others, now lined up behind him in the main tunnel, just before the fork.

  He pointed across. "Listen carefully," he said, voice low but firm.

  The group gathered near. Faces pale. Eyes wide. No one asked what he'd seen. No one wanted to know.

  "We're not going into that tunnel. But we have to cross its entrance."

  He pointed at the space ahead; the mouth of the side corridor, where the light flickered from within.

  "Nine meters of exposed ground. The gunmen are deep enough not to see us; if we move silently. We don't have time to hesitate, so do not look inside the tunnel. Keep your heads down, don't make a sound, and just keep walking. Don't stop for anything. Understood?"

  He looked at each of them; Dana, holding Sam steady; Jake, jaw clenched; Lien, pale and alert; Eve, with Dexter at her side.

  "You'll pass first. One by one. I'll go last."

  Dana nodded first. Then Jake. The others were silent, but Mike could feel the weight of their fear pressing in around him.

  They understood.

  Nine meters. That was it. The edge of hell.

  Just nine meters of space to pass the mouth of a slaughterhouse and pretend they didn't hear or see anything.

  One by one, they moved forward, shadows gliding across the walls, hearts pounding in unison with their steps.

  7:12 p.m.

  It was Dana who crossed first. She didn't hesitate. She kept her head down, eyes locked on the dark tunnel ahead. She passed the opening, her feet brushing against the threshold, and the air around her seemed to tremble. For a moment, Mike feared she would falter; but she didn't. She kept moving, determined.

  Sam, carried in her arms, was a different story. Mike could see him, even from here. His face was pale, eyes wide. He shifted in Dana's arms, his head turning toward the hell they were walking past. The screams. The burning. Sam's face went from terror to something darker; something more broken. He pulled back into Dana's arms, not making a sound. But Mike could see it; he could feel it. This was the moment when Sam lost his last shred of joy.

  Jake got ready to go next, but Mike stopped him. "Stay behind with me till the end. If someone panics, we need to help them."

  Jake nodded faintly. He definitely wanted to help. But he didn't like the pressure of being put on the spot like this. He would have preferred being responsible only for himself right now. It was already taxing enough. He was truly scared to freeze when they needed him.

  The others followed behind Dana. One by one. Each crossing that threshold.

  Eve crossed with Eli guiding her. Mike gave them the same instructions. Each word clipped, direct, controlled. His voice never rose. Because if he let it waver; if they heard the fear in him; none of them would make it.

  Then Tess, focused straight ahead, with zero intention of turning her head toward the gunshots and fire.

  But when it was Lien's turn, everything went wrong. Lien; the discreet and confident woman who never wavered; hesitated at the edge of the entrance, her breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. She kept walking slowly until she reached the middle. And her eyes flickered to the right, at the twisted, horrific scene unfolding beyond the tunnel mouth.

  And before anyone could stop her, she froze. Her hands trembled at her sides, her eyes went wide with the shock of what she saw. She tried to take another step forward, but her body began to shake uncontrollably. Her breath quickened. Faster and louder.

  "Lien!" Mike hissed, trying to keep his voice low. But it didn't matter. The terror in her eyes was palpable. She was staring at the gunmen; no longer aware of the others. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her chest rose and fell as if she were suffocating.

  "Lien!" Mike repeated, his voice strained. But it was too late. Her knees buckled. She was about to collapse.

  And that's when Jake moved.

  Jake saw Lien falter, and something snapped inside him. He didn't shout. He didn't freeze. He just moved. In a single breath, he was off the wall and sprinting toward her; boots barely making a sound, coat trailing behind him like a shadow trying to catch up. Lien was starting to fall forward, her legs trembling beneath her, hands twitching as if reaching for something that wasn't there. Her mouth opened in a silent cry.

  Jake caught her mid-collapse, arms strong and certain, scooping her up like she weighed nothing. Her eyes were glassed over, locked on the horror she'd just witnessed.

  "Close your eyes," he whispered, though she couldn't hear him. "Don't look anymore."

  He ran with her.

  Mike's heart pounded against his ribs like it was trying to escape. Every step Jake took was deafening in Mike's mind. They were too loud. The gunmen would hear them. But they didn't.

  Tess stood still, locked in place as the others moved like shadows around her. Jake was sprinting toward them, Lien limp in his arms. Dana had Sam half-draped over her shoulder, steady despite the weight. Eli guided Eve with quiet precision, guarding her every step. Everyone was doing something.

  Everyone except her.

  Tess watched Jake sprint with Lien, and something inside her cracked. She should move. Should help. Should do something. But her feet felt welded to the concrete, her body betraying her when courage mattered most.

  Anna would have moved. Anna would have been the first to run toward danger if someone needed help. But Anna was dead, and Tess was discovering that surviving didn't automatically make you brave.

  Tess's gaze fixed on them, her fists clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palms. Her shoulders trembled; not from fear, but from the unbearable pressure building in her chest. She wanted to help. She needed to do something; anything. Her mind still screamed for Anna, even now. But guilt twisted deep into her spine, paralyzing her legs.

  A voice whispered at the back of her mind: You're useless now. You're just dead weight trailing behind the rest of them.

  She bit down on the thought, jaw tight, eyes burning.

  She didn't want to believe it. But standing there, still and silent, as the people around her fought and carried and ran; It was getting harder not to believe it.

  Jake was nearly through. Four meters... two meters. The tunnel mouth loomed just behind him now, the space glowing faintly with firelight. The screams and gunfire had become white noise. Until came a sudden, absolute silence.

  As if the tunnel itself had inhaled; and was holding its breath.

  Mike's gaze snapped back to the execution chamber. The gunmen had stopped. The flamethrower was off. No motion. No sound.

  They had completed their barbaric task. One of them had turned; just slightly; his helmeted face tilted toward the corridor. Toward them.

  Mike's heart sank. No. No, no, no.

  Mike's eyes darted to Jake. He was still running, still clutching Lien, but off-balance now. Her weight shifted in his arms. Jake tried to readjust his hold on her. And something came loose.

  Something small and rectangular slipped from Jake's pocket.

  Mike's world contracted to that single falling object. Time stretched like taffy, giving him forever to watch the inevitable. Jake's phone, spinning end over end.

  No, no, no...

  Clack. Then finally hit the floor and the first bounce was almost gentle; a soft clack that might have been mistaken for settling debris.

  Clack. The second was louder.

  Clack. The third rang through the tunnel like a dinner bell for death.

  Jake painfully reached the other side with Lien, while the phone continued its chaotic dance across the concrete in every direction like it was begging for attention.

  And then everything stopped.

  Mike's mind screamed against the silence.

  Even Mike's heartbeat felt like it had gone still.

  Maybe they didn't hear. Maybe the fire drowned it out. Maybe the distance swallowed the noise.

  He waited. One second. Two seconds.

  Then. Light.

  A curtain of blinding white light burst from the tunnel, casting a cone directly across the main corridor like a trap snapping shut.

  Mike flinched back instinctively, throwing his back to the cold tunnel wall, teeth clenched. He didn't need to see the beams to know what they meant.

  An arc of piercing white light swept across the walls like a blade, carving through the blackness, moving in the synchronized rhythm of their footsteps.

  He looked across the gap and saw Dana. The group had already crossed. They were safe. Frozen in place, yes; but unharmed. They could keep moving.

  But he couldn't.

  The group had already passed the fork, waiting on the far side of the tunnel mouth. Mike and Harrow remained behind, cut off by the sweeping beams of light.

  Going forward meant stepping into the cone; into sight. Into certain death. And going back meant retreating alone, losing the others entirely.

  The distance between him and safety might have been 9 meters in reality. But it felt like a chasm between worlds; one where his friends waited in darkness, and one where searchlights carved the air into zones of certain death.

  His jaw tightened. Chest heaving. Behind him, he could hear movement; boots on concrete, getting closer. The gunmen had heard the phone. They were coming.

  Mike looked at the sweeping lights, at Harrow's enigmatic smile, at the approaching sound of death behind him.

  In his mind, all he could think was: "My rotten luck."