Chapter 2

Location: Line 3, Kurskaya Service Tunnel - 300 Meters from Station

Date: March 13, 2032

Time: 00:18

Entry 2

I should have turned back. I knew it the moment I saw that body—Kurskaya isn't safe anymore. But now I'm in too deep to pull out. I can feel it. Something's hunting out here, and if I run, it'll be right on my heels.

The air feels colder now. It could be my mind playing tricks on me, but I swear the temperature dropped as soon as I passed that corpse. Maybe it's just the blood. Or maybe it's the silence. Either way, the cart feels heavier with every step. But I push forward because what else is there to do?

I'm not an idiot. I know how this goes. A dead man in the tunnels means more trouble than I want. Kurskaya's a mess. There should be guards by now, shouting at me to stop, waving their rusted guns in my face like they've got something to protect. But the checkpoint's abandoned. No light. No people. Just that damn silence. And every step I take into it makes my skin crawl.

The tracks feel uneven beneath my boots, and I pull my cart of supplies forward with more force than before. The sound of its rattling wheels echoes down the tunnel like a whisper that won't shut up. It's the only sound around, and I hate it.

I stop again and listen.

Nothing. Not a breath. Not a footstep. Not even the wind whistling through the cracks in the walls. Just… nothing.

My revolver's still in my hand, but it doesn't feel like enough. Six shots, that's all I've got. Six bullets between me and whatever's waiting ahead. If I had a brain in my head, I'd turn tail and head back to Arbatskaya. But no. That's not an option anymore.

I've come too far.

I inch forward again, but this time I'm not just dragging the cart—I'm dragging myself. My eyes dart between the shadows ahead, scanning for movement, anything that looks wrong. But everything looks wrong here.

Kurskaya was supposed to be safe. That's what the smugglers tell each other, isn't it? The stations along this line don't have the same problems as the others. No mutants. No bandits. Just business. It's supposed to be a clean run, in and out, and everyone's happy. But the blood on the walls is real. And if the guards are dead…

What killed them?

My grip tightens on the revolver as I move past the checkpoint. The station entrance is ahead, but the gate's partially closed, leaving only a narrow gap for me to slip through. The dim light from the station barely spills out, casting more shadows than comfort. I shove the cart against the gap and wedge myself through, revolver first.

The smell hits me before the sight does.

Blood. Lots of it.

I swallow hard, scanning the station. Kurskaya looks like a slaughterhouse. Bodies lie scattered in the corners, slumped against the walls, their clothes torn and soaked in dark patches. Men, women, maybe even kids. It's hard to tell. Some of the bodies have been shredded, like they've been torn apart by claws, and my mind flashes to the stories I've heard about mutants, things that come up from the tunnels beneath the Metro, the things that drag men away screaming in the night.

But it's not the mutants I'm worried about.

No, this is something else.

I move slowly, careful to keep my steps light. The station's too quiet, but there's a faint hum—machinery in the back rooms still running, keeping the lights on, flickering weakly but holding. I don't bother with the cart anymore. It's useless now. I shove it to the side and crouch low, keeping my revolver trained on the shadows.

The survivors should have holed up somewhere, but there's no sign of them. No barricades, no weapons ready to defend the station. Just… emptiness. I step over another body, a man in his mid-thirties, his throat cut cleanly, no struggle. His face is frozen in terror, eyes wide open, staring at nothing.

This isn't a raid. Raids are messy, full of noise and gunfire. This… this is quiet. Precise. Whoever—or whatever—did this knew exactly what they were doing.

I should leave. I know I should. But there's a gnawing feeling in my gut. I can't leave without finding out what happened.

I move deeper into the station, past the bodies, past the ruined market stalls where they once sold bread, canned goods, and whatever junk the scavengers could find. I take shallow breaths, trying not to gag on the smell of death, but it sticks in my throat like a weight I can't swallow.

Then I hear it. A noise. Faint, barely there.

It's a whimper.

I freeze. Someone's alive.

I follow the sound, careful to avoid stepping on the pools of blood and debris. The whimper grows louder as I move toward one of the back storage rooms. The door is slightly ajar, and the faint light from inside casts a sliver of gold onto the cracked floor.

I nudge the door open with my boot, revolver raised.

Inside, I see her—a girl, no older than sixteen, huddled in the corner, covered in blood but alive. Her wide eyes lock onto mine, terrified.

She wasn't expecting to see me.

She doesn't speak. She just stares, shaking, her hands wrapped around her knees, her breath ragged and shallow. I lower the revolver a fraction, trying to get a read on her.

"What happened here?" I whisper.

No answer.

Her gaze darts to something behind me, and before I can turn, I feel it—a presence, a rush of air, the faint sound of claws scraping against the metal walls.

I spin around, revolver up, and my finger squeezes the trigger instinctively.

The gunshot rings out in the confined space, loud enough to shake my bones, but it doesn't matter. Whatever was behind me is gone, melted back into the shadows.

Shit.

I scan the room, heart hammering in my chest. There's nothing. No movement. Just the lingering echo of the shot, and the girl still huddled in the corner, wide-eyed and trembling.

I've seen enough. Whatever's hunting in these tunnels, it's still here. And it's waiting.

I take a step back, glancing over my shoulder. The girl hasn't moved, and I'm not sure she's in any shape to leave. But I can't stay here. Not anymore.

"I'm sorry," I mutter, backing out of the room, my revolver still raised. "I can't help you."

She doesn't reply. She doesn't have to.

I turn and run, leaving the girl and the station behind me, the darkness pressing in on all sides.