Chapter 1

Location: Line 3, Arbatskaya Station - Service Tunnels

Date: March 13, 2032

Time: 23:47

Entry 1

Sometimes, I wonder if the world before the bombs was any better. People still killed each other back then, didn't they? The only difference now is that the air burns your lungs, and the shadows can tear a man apart before he even realizes he's dead. But in the Metro, you can't afford to dwell on that. Not if you want to survive.

Arbatskaya's tunnel is quiet tonight. Almost too quiet. The only sound is the rhythmic creak of the cart's wheels as I drag it along the old rails. I'm alone—just me and my revolver, the one thing left of my father.

The revolver's weight presses against my hip, a constant reminder of the past, though I try not to think about it. Every time I pull the trigger, I wonder if this is the shot that'll finally get me killed. But not tonight. Not yet.

Tonight, it's another routine run. Cart full of old-world junk, dragging it through the tunnels for a few measly cartridges. Bullets for whiskey, medkits for cigarettes—it's always the same deal. Kurskaya's expecting a delivery, something they'll fawn over like it's the last hope for mankind. A generator, patched together from scrap, barely enough to keep their lights on another month if they're lucky. If I make it, they'll pay me in bullets and scraps of food, and I'll crawl back to Arbatskaya, where the next run waits. It's the same loop, day in, day out.*

I don't need to think. I just need to keep moving.

It's funny, in a way. People down here act like they're still alive, like they're clinging to something that matters. But if you ask me, the world ended a long time ago. Maybe we all died the day the bombs fell, and this… this Metro is just some purgatory where we pretend we're still breathing. Me? I'm just biding my time until it's my turn.

There's a part of me that wonders what I'd be doing if things had been different. Maybe I would have been one of those people, living in a station, pretending I still had something worth protecting. Maybe I'd be a soldier, or an engineer, or one of those damned merchants who think they run the show. But no. I'm a smuggler. I move in the shadows, keep my head down, and make sure I'm not the one lying face down in the dirt.

The cart jerks as it catches on a chunk of debris, and I have to stop, gritting my teeth as I heave it free. Damn thing's heavier than it looks. But it's better to haul this junk than deal with the creatures lurking out there. Better this than ending up like those poor bastards at Polis Station. They thought they were safe too, until the shadows came.

I've seen things. Things that make you question why we even bother trying anymore. I've heard the stories about the Dark Ones. Things that come from the surface, things that crawl into your mind and tear you apart from the inside out. People think I'm lucky, that I get to move between stations, avoid the worst of it. But luck runs out sooner or later.

And mine's running thin.

The tunnels stretch on before me, dim and endless. The lamps strung along the walls flicker with weak, dying light, casting long shadows that dance and twist with every step I take. Every creak, every distant sound puts me on edge. I can feel the weight of the Metro pressing down on me. Above, the surface is a wasteland, the air too toxic to breathe, and down here… down here, we survive in the dark, praying the darkness doesn't swallow us whole.

Kurskaya's close. It's always a relief when I see their makeshift checkpoint up ahead, just a few steps away from getting paid, from eating whatever sludge they've managed to scrounge up that day.

But something feels off.

The lamps ahead are out, leaving the path in front of me submerged in pitch black. That's not normal. Kurskaya usually has guards stationed here by now, a couple of old-timers with ancient rifles, half-asleep but always there. Not tonight.

I stop the cart. The silence isn't right either. Usually, I can hear something—echoes from the station, distant chatter, the clanging of old machinery. There's none of that.

I crouch, listening. The air feels heavy, like something's watching, waiting.

For a second, I think about turning back. Arbatskaya's not that far. I could make it if I hurry. But then, what would I tell them? That I spooked myself over some burnt-out lights? That I didn't deliver the generator because it was too quiet? They'd laugh me out of the station.

No, I can't afford to run. Not yet.

I pull my revolver from its holster, the cold metal familiar in my hand. Six shots. Not much, but better than nothing. I inch forward, one foot in front of the other, eyes darting from shadow to shadow, my heart pounding louder than it should. The silence presses in, and I know something's wrong, but I can't put my finger on what it is.

Then I see it.

A body.

It's slumped against the tunnel wall, half in shadow, half in the weak glow of a flickering lamp. Blood stains the ground beneath it, dark and glistening, too much for a simple skirmish.

Shit.

I edge closer, keeping my gun raised. The man's dead. His throat's been torn open, ripped apart by something with claws. Mutant? Bandit? I don't know, but whatever did this… it wasn't friendly.

I crouch next to him, searching his pockets out of habit. A few rounds of ammo, a rusted knife. Nothing else.

What the hell happened here?

My hand tightens around the grip of my revolver as I stand. Something's out there, something that's not part of the usual routine. And suddenly, I realize this run… it might be my last.