"What do we do now?"
The words hung in the air like a heavy fog. No one answered.
Only silence.
And the steady, dull thumps of corrupted bodies slamming into the sealed door behind them.
The sound wasn't loud—but it was constant. Unrelenting. Each impact made the walls vibrate slightly.
A reminder that death was still just one car away.
Some passengers wept quietly. Others stared blankly, their minds far away. It felt like the whole car was holding its breath.
Waiting, hoping, for someone to say something that made sense. Something that gave them a reason to believe they would make it out alive.
But the train wasn't moving anymore.
It had stopped after the explosion that shook the tracks earlier.
Kyle stood near the center of the car, gripping the hilt of Zalrielle—his tachi. His knuckles were white around the handle.
He hated this feeling.
This helplessness.
Finally, the mercenary with the broadsword—Brock, spoke. He was leaning against a support bar, his face grim.
