Chapter 7

Location: Arbatskaya Station - Smugglers' Quarters

Date: March 13, 2032

Time: 05:45

Entry 7

I should be sleeping. My body feels like it's been through hell, my legs ready to give out, my chest still aching from whatever that thing did to me in the tunnel. But sleep won't come. It never does when you need it the most.

The cramped quarters of Arbatskaya Station are familiar, but right now, they feel more like a cage than a safe place. The air is stale, the walls pressing in on me like the darkness in the tunnels. I lie on the thin mattress, staring up at the cracked ceiling, trying to make sense of everything.

But nothing makes sense anymore.

Kurskaya is gone. Wiped out by… what? I still can't answer that question. I can still hear the whispers in the back of my mind, though they're faint now, like an echo that refuses to die. I try to shake them, but they cling to me, reminding me that something's out there. Something that let me live when it shouldn't have.

I don't know why it let me go.

I close my eyes, trying to focus on my breathing, trying to drown out the thoughts that keep spinning in my head. But every time I close my eyes, I see it—those glowing eyes staring into me, that cold voice whispering in my mind, telling me that I'm not worthy. Not worthy of what? Of living? Of dying? I don't know.

The captain said they'd send a team to check Kurskaya. I don't envy them. They'll find the bodies, find the blood. But they won't find the thing that did it. Not unless it wants them to. And I don't think it does.

I sit up on the mattress, rubbing my hands over my face, trying to shake off the exhaustion that clings to me. The room is dark, the only light coming from a flickering bulb in the corner. It casts long shadows across the walls, and for a moment, I swear the shadows move, twisting and bending like the thing that attacked me.

I blink, and the shadows are still again.

I'm losing it. I know I am.

I push myself to my feet, my body protesting with every movement. My legs are still shaking, my arms weak. But I can't lie down anymore. I need to move, to do something, anything to take my mind off of what happened.

I pull on my jacket, the familiar weight of my revolver at my side a small comfort, though I know it's useless against whatever's out there. Still, it makes me feel like I have some control. Like I'm not completely helpless.

I step out of the room and into the narrow corridor of the smugglers' quarters. The station is quiet, most people still asleep or going about their early-morning routines. The few who are awake glance at me as I pass, their eyes filled with suspicion and something else—fear. They've heard about Kurskaya by now. News travels fast in the Metro, especially when it's bad.

I make my way toward the market, hoping to blend in, to disappear among the crowds. But even as I walk, I can feel the weight of their stares, the whispers that follow me down the corridor. People know something's wrong. They can see it in my face, in the way I carry myself.

They know.

At the market, the usual hustle and bustle of traders setting up their stalls greets me, but it feels muted. The smells of stale bread and cooking meat hang in the air, mixing with the ever-present stench of sweat and grime. Normally, this place is alive with haggling and arguments, the sounds of survival in a world that's forgotten what life was like before the bombs. But today, the energy is different.

As I walk through the rows of stalls, I catch fragments of conversations. People talking about Kurskaya. About the slaughter. About me.

"They say he was the last one to see it."

"Did he make it out alone? No one else survived?"

"He's cursed, I tell you. No one walks away from something like that."

I clench my jaw, trying to block out their words. But it's no use. They can't help but talk. It's how people cope down here, how they make sense of the senseless. If something doesn't make sense, they give it a reason. And right now, I'm that reason.

Cursed. Maybe they're right.

I keep walking, avoiding eye contact, keeping my head down. I don't want to draw attention. I don't want to answer their questions. I just want to disappear.

But as I pass one of the stalls, a hand grabs my arm, pulling me to a stop. I tense, my hand instinctively reaching for my revolver, but when I look up, I see it's just an old woman. Her eyes are wide, her face pale, her grip surprisingly strong for someone so frail.

"You saw it, didn't you?" she whispers, her voice trembling. "You saw what's coming."

I try to pull away, but her grip tightens, her bony fingers digging into my arm.

"Tell me!" she hisses, her voice rising. "What did you see?"

I shake my head, trying to break free of her grasp. "I don't know what you're talking about," I say, my voice low, trying to keep the panic out of it.

She lets go of me, her eyes narrowing. "Liar," she spits, her voice harsh. "You know. You saw it. You know what's coming. We're all doomed, just like Kurskaya."

I turn and walk away before she can say anything else, my heart pounding in my chest. My hands are shaking again, and I shove them into my pockets, trying to steady myself, trying to get away from her words.

Liar. You know what's coming.

The words stick with me, even as I push through the market. It's like she saw straight into me, saw what I've been trying to deny. I don't know what's coming, but I can feel it—the weight of it pressing down on me, just like the thing in the tunnel. It's not over. Kurskaya was just the beginning. Whatever that thing was, whatever it's doing, it's still out there. And now, people are looking at me like I have answers.

But I don't. All I have is fear.

I make my way through the market and head for the station's far corner, the old service tunnels where no one bothers to go anymore. It's quiet there, away from the noise, away from the questions, away from the eyes that are starting to follow me everywhere I go.

The air in the service tunnels is colder, the lights dimmer, flickering like they're on their last breath. Just like everything else in this godforsaken place. I lean against the wall, my back pressed against the cold concrete, and close my eyes. I can still hear the woman's voice echoing in my head, accusing me, demanding answers I don't have.

You saw it. You know.

I try to steady my breathing, but the fear is back. The same fear I felt in the tunnel when that thing was standing over me. The same fear that's been gnawing at the edges of my mind since I left Kurskaya. I tell myself it's over. I'm safe now. The station is secure. But I don't believe it.

Something's coming.

I don't know how long I stand there, listening to the silence, trying to calm myself. But the longer I stand, the more I feel like I'm being watched. The walls seem closer, the shadows deeper. The whispers, faint and distant, start to creep back into the edges of my mind. I shake my head, trying to block them out, but they're there, persistent.

I should leave. I should go back to my room, try to get some rest, try to forget everything that happened. But I can't. Not with this gnawing feeling in my gut. I need to know more. I need to understand what happened at Kurskaya, what that thing was.

But there's no one here who can give me answers. No one except…

I push off the wall and start walking, my steps quick and determined. I know who I need to talk to. There's only one person in Arbatskaya who knows more about the strange things that happen in the Metro than anyone else.

I make my way toward the farthest end of the station, where the older, more isolated bunkers are. The people who live down here are different. The outcasts, the ones who don't fit in with the rest of the station. The ones who know things the rest of us would rather not think about. People say they're crazy. Maybe they are.

But maybe they're right.

As I walk, the tunnels become narrower, the walls closer. The lights here are even dimmer, barely enough to see by. The air feels thick, heavy with dust and the staleness of too many years underground. But I keep walking, my heart pounding in my chest. I know what I'm looking for. I've heard about him—whispers, mostly. They say he's seen things. They say he knows things. Things about the dark, about what's really out there.

I reach the door. It's a rusted metal slab, half falling off its hinges, with strange symbols scratched into the surface. I don't know what they mean, but they make my skin crawl. I stand there for a moment, my hand hovering over the handle, wondering if I'm making a mistake. But I don't have a choice. I need answers.

I knock, the sound echoing down the narrow corridor. For a long moment, there's nothing. No movement, no sound. I almost turn around, ready to leave, when the door creaks open.

A man stands in the doorway, hunched and ragged, his eyes wide and bloodshot, like he hasn't slept in years. His clothes are tattered, barely holding together, and there's a smell—a mix of rot and dampness that clings to him like a second skin.

"What do you want?" he rasps, his voice rough like gravel.

"I need to know," I say, my voice steady despite the fear gnawing at me. "I need to know what happened at Kurskaya."

His eyes narrow, and for a moment, I think he's going to slam the door in my face. But then he steps aside, gesturing for me to enter. I hesitate for a second, then step inside, the door creaking shut behind me.

The room is dimly lit by a single, flickering bulb hanging from the ceiling. The walls are covered in papers, maps of the Metro, strange drawings, and more of those symbols scratched into the walls. The air is thick with the smell of mold and something else—something metallic, like blood.

The man moves to a small table, cluttered with old books and scraps of paper, and sits down, gesturing for me to do the same. I sit, my hands resting on my knees, my eyes scanning the room, trying to take it all in. The place feels wrong, like it's stuck in time, like it shouldn't exist.

"You saw it," the man says, his voice low, almost a whisper. "Didn't you?"

I nod, my throat dry. "I don't know what it was. But it killed everyone at Kurskaya."

The man nods slowly, his eyes distant, like he's looking at something I can't see.

"It wasn't the first time," he says. "And it won't be the last."

My heart skips a beat. I lean forward, my voice barely above a whisper. "What do you mean?"

The man looks at me, his eyes sharp now, focused. "The dark. It's always been here. But it's growing. It's getting stronger. You've seen it. You've felt it."

I swallow hard, my mind racing. The thing in the tunnel. The whispers. The feeling of being watched. "What is it?" I ask, my voice shaking. "What does it want?"

The man leans back in his chair, his eyes narrowing as he studies me. "It doesn't want. It is. The Metro is more than just tunnels. More than just what we see. There are things beneath it. Things older than us. Older than the bombs. Older than the world."

I shake my head, trying to make sense of what he's saying. "That doesn't explain what happened at Kurskaya. Why did it kill them? Why did it let me go?"

The man leans forward, his voice barely a whisper. "Because it's watching you now. You were marked."

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Marked. The thing in the tunnel. The whispers. The feeling that something is always watching me, waiting. I stand up, my legs unsteady.

"I need to go," I say, my voice shaking.

The man doesn't try to stop me. He just watches me with those wide, bloodshot eyes, a faint smile playing on his lips.

"Good luck," he says softly as I head for the door. "You'll need it."