Chapter 4

Location: Line 3, Service Tunnel near Arbatskaya

Date: March 13, 2032

Time: 02:20

Entry 4

I've been running for what feels like hours. My legs burn, my chest feels like it's collapsing in on itself, and every breath I take is ragged, too loud in this endless tunnel. But I can't stop. I know if I stop, it'll catch me.

The air in the Metro has always been thick—damp, stagnant—but now it feels like it's pressing in on me, suffocating. The walls are closer than I remember, the shadows deeper. There's something wrong with this place. Maybe it's always been like this, or maybe I'm just noticing it now. Either way, I can't shake the feeling that the tunnel is alive, watching, waiting for me to slip up.

Arbatskaya should be close. But the tunnel keeps stretching out before me, as if it's mocking me. Every step I take feels like I'm getting further away instead of closer. My flashlight flickers, barely holding on. I've been turning it off and on, trying to save what little battery I have left. But the dark… the dark is worse than the light.

The whispers are back. I can't hear them clearly, but they're there, crawling in the back of my mind like worms. They slither in and out of my thoughts, twisting everything, making it hard to focus. I don't know if they're real or if I'm just losing it. Maybe I've finally snapped, after all these years.

I keep telling myself it's all in my head. There's nothing out there, nothing following me. It's just paranoia. But the sound of those footsteps… no, I know something's out there. I can feel it. Every time I stop, it's closer. Every time I turn around, it disappears.

I don't have the luxury of doubt anymore.

My hand hovers over my revolver, but I don't draw it. I know it won't make a difference. If whatever killed those people at Kurskaya is coming after me, this gun won't save me. Six bullets are nothing against the dark.

I don't know how long I've been walking. Time doesn't mean anything down here. Minutes, hours—it all blurs together in the shadows. My body is on autopilot now, moving forward out of instinct more than anything else.

The tunnel twists and turns, the familiar landmarks slipping past me like ghosts. I should know this place. I've walked this path a hundred times before. But tonight, everything looks different. The cracks in the walls, the way the light hits the rails, the oppressive silence—it all feels wrong. I'm starting to doubt myself. Did I take a wrong turn? Did I pass Arbatskaya without noticing?

No. I can't think like that. I have to stay focused.

I stop for a moment, leaning against the wall to catch my breath. My legs feel like jelly, and my throat is raw from the cold air. My fingers tremble as I reach for my canteen, but the water tastes like dirt. It doesn't matter. I drink it anyway.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and take a deep breath. I need to keep moving. I can't stop now. The moment I stop is the moment it gets me.

But I'm so damn tired.

I push off the wall, forcing myself to keep going. My legs protest with every step, but I don't care. Pain is better than stopping. I'd rather feel pain than feel nothing at all.

The whispers grow louder.

I freeze, listening. They're not in my head. Not this time. They're real. I can hear them, just beyond the edge of the light, just out of reach. Soft, insidious, like a voice carried on the wind. I strain to make out the words, but they're too faint, too distorted.

Then I hear it. A laugh.

It's faint, but it's there. A low, rumbling chuckle that sends a shiver down my spine. My hand flies to my revolver, and I pull it free, holding it out in front of me like it's going to do anything against what's out there.

"Who's there?" I shout into the darkness, my voice echoing back at me. No answer. Just the laugh, growing fainter, like it's retreating deeper into the tunnel. I take a step back, my heart racing.

I'm not alone.

I know I should run. But something keeps me rooted in place. The laugh, the whispers—they're pulling me in. It's like they're daring me to follow, to find out what's waiting for me in the dark.

I take a step forward.

Stupid.

But I can't help it. I need to know. I need to see what's out there. My flashlight flickers again, casting weak light into the tunnel, barely enough to see a few feet ahead. I raise my revolver, holding it steady as I move forward, my footsteps slow and deliberate.

The laughter fades, replaced by silence once more. But the whispers… they're still there, just out of reach, like a shadow that slips away every time I get close.

I keep walking.

What am I doing? This is suicide. I should turn back, head straight to Arbatskaya, and forget any of this ever happened.

But my feet keep moving forward, dragging me deeper into the darkness. There's something wrong with me. I know it. But I can't stop. I need to see it. I need to know what's waiting for me.

Then I see it. A shape.

It's faint, just a shadow against the wall, barely visible in the flickering light of my flashlight. But it's there, crouched low, watching me. My heart leaps into my throat, and my finger tightens on the trigger.

I take another step forward.

The shape doesn't move.

I swallow hard, my mouth dry, and raise the revolver higher. My hands are shaking, but I keep the gun steady, ready to fire at the slightest movement.

The shape shifts, just slightly, like it's settling in place. I can see the outline now—a hunched figure, cloaked in shadow, its eyes gleaming faintly in the dim light.

I freeze.

Who—what—is this?

The whispers stop. The tunnel goes silent. My breath catches in my throat, and for a moment, everything stands still.

Then the figure moves.

It lunges toward me with impossible speed, faster than I can react. I pull the trigger, the gunshot deafening in the enclosed space. The figure jerks to the side, dodging the bullet with unnatural agility. My heart pounds in my chest as I fire again, but it's too fast.

Before I can fire a third time, it's on me. I feel a cold, crushing force slam into my chest, knocking me to the ground. The world spins, and I hit the cold stone floor hard, the wind knocked out of me. My revolver clatters away into the darkness, useless.

I gasp for breath, but there's no time. The figure looms over me, a towering shadow with glowing eyes that burn into my soul. I try to crawl away, but my body won't respond. I'm frozen, paralyzed by fear, by whatever this thing is.

The whispers return, louder now, clearer.

"Run," they say. "Run, little rat."

But I can't. I'm trapped.