Chapter 8

Location: Arbatskaya Station - Main Tunnels

Date: March 13, 2032

Time: 06:30

Entry 8

The old man's words echo in my mind, twisting through my thoughts like smoke. I try to shake them, try to convince myself that he's just another crazy fool living too long in the dark. But the feeling hasn't gone away. It's still there—the sense that something's watching me, waiting, crawling in the shadows. He said I'm "marked." And for the first time since this all started, I think he might be right.

I leave the service tunnel behind, the air in the station heavy with the smell of burning fires and unwashed bodies. The same stench I've grown used to over the years, but now it feels suffocating. Every breath feels like it's dragging me deeper into something I can't escape.

What did he mean? Marked for what? And why? Why let me go when it could've killed me like the others? These questions circle in my head, but the answers feel just out of reach, as if the more I try to grasp them, the further away they slip.

The market is already bustling again when I make my way back through the station. I try to blend in, but it's impossible now. I can feel their eyes on me. The whispers have started again—different this time. Not the whispers in the tunnel, but real voices, human voices. People are talking about me.

I catch snatches of their conversations as I pass, their voices low, but loud enough to carry.

"He's the one who came back from Kurskaya."

"Everyone else is dead. He's the only survivor."

"They say something's following him."

I try to ignore them, but their words dig into me like nails. The rumors are spreading faster than I expected. People are starting to look at me differently—like I'm not one of them anymore, like I'm something dangerous, something cursed.

And maybe I am.

I push through the crowd, keeping my head down, trying to disappear into the noise. But it doesn't work. I feel exposed, vulnerable. The station, once a place of relative safety, now feels like a trap, with walls closing in around me. Every shadow seems deeper, every flicker of light more fleeting, as if the darkness is closing in on me faster than before.

I reach the far side of the market, where the traders from other stations set up their stalls. The familiar sight of scavenged goods, rusted weapons, and salvaged electronics should bring some comfort—routine, at least—but all I feel is dread.

I need to leave. Get out of Arbatskaya. Get away from all these people, from their stares, their whispers. I need space to think, to figure out what's happening to me. But where can I go?

Kurskaya is gone. The tunnels are dangerous now—more dangerous than ever. And even if I leave, what's waiting for me out there? More death? More of those things? I can't even begin to understand what's happening, and yet…

I can't stay here.

The captain's team is probably already on their way to Kurskaya. They'll find the bodies, but they won't find answers. If they even make it back alive. And when they don't, the questions will turn to accusations. Suspicion will fall on me. I'm the only one who survived. I'm the only one left to blame.

They'll want to know why I came back and no one else did. They'll want to know what happened. And I don't have the answers. Not the ones they want, anyway.

I need to move before it's too late.

I head toward the exit to the service tunnels, where the station guards stand watch. They give me the usual glance, but something's different now. I can see it in their eyes. They've heard the rumors too. They don't trust me anymore. I've become something else in their eyes—someone touched by the dark, someone who's dangerous to be around.

I nod at them, trying to act normal, trying to pretend that nothing's changed. But I can feel their eyes on my back as I walk away, my skin crawling under the weight of their suspicion. Every step feels heavier, like I'm being dragged toward something I can't see. The old man's words keep echoing in my head:

You were marked.

I don't know where I'm going. I just know I can't stay here. The tunnels stretch out ahead of me, winding deeper into the Metro's labyrinth, leading to places I've been before but never with this feeling hanging over me. I should have a plan. I've always had a plan—a route, a destination, something to aim for. But not today.

Today, I'm just running.

The dark corners of the Metro loom ahead, the old stations abandoned long ago, places where only the brave or the desperate venture now. I fall into the latter category, I guess. I keep walking, my hand resting on my revolver, my eyes scanning the shadows for movement. There's no sound here, just the soft drip of water from cracks in the ceiling and the faint echo of my footsteps.

I tell myself it's safe here. No one else comes this far out. The mutants avoid it. The bandits don't bother with it. It's just me and the dark. But that doesn't bring me any comfort anymore. Not after what I saw. Not after what I heard.

My mind drifts back to Kurskaya, to the bodies, to the whispers. And the thing. That shape in the shadows. Those glowing eyes. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to push the memory away, but it's useless. It's burned into my brain. I'll never forget it.

I don't know how long I've been walking when I finally stop. The tunnel is narrower here, the walls closer, the air colder. I sit down on a broken crate, my back against the wall, my revolver resting on my knee. My hands are trembling again. I can't stop them.

The darkness feels alive, like it's pressing in on me, wrapping itself around me like a shroud. And then I hear it.

A whisper. Soft at first, almost too faint to notice. But it's there, curling around the edges of my mind, just like before. I freeze, my heart hammering in my chest. I don't move. I don't breathe. I just listen.

It grows louder, more insistent. But I can't make out the words. It's like a voice carried on the wind, too far away to hear clearly but close enough to feel.

I stand, my hand tightening on the grip of my revolver. My eyes scan the darkness, but there's nothing there. Just shadows. Just the tunnel stretching out in front of me, endless and empty. But the whisper is still there, growing louder.

It's watching me again.

I back up slowly, my revolver raised, the barrel shaking as my hands tremble. The whisper grows louder, filling the tunnel, filling my head, until it's all I can hear. And then, just as suddenly as it began, it stops.

Silence.

I don't move. I don't breathe. I just stand there, waiting for something to happen, waiting for the dark to move, to shift. But nothing does. The whisper is gone, and I'm alone again, standing in an empty tunnel.

It's still there. I know it is. Watching me. Waiting.

I can't stay here. I have to keep moving. I have to get away from it.