It took the better part of twenty minutes to clear a path and haul the first crate down.
The entrance was narrow and jagged, clearly unused in years. Mold clung to the concrete. Rust curled like fungus over old tracks and bolts. Water pooled in the corners, dripping from overhead pipes.
But the passage stretched far—longer than expected. Sloping east.
And it was quiet.
So quiet.
I went first.
Tiger behind me.
Kol and Mick brought up the rear with the white crate, strapped and secured with sweat-slick palms.
The tunnel walls felt too close.
Too narrow.
Every breath echoed.
But it was better than the alternative.
Above us, danger still lingered.
Down here, at least we moved.
"Where does it come out?" I asked.
Kol's voice was strained behind me. "Old checkpoint just outside Sector D. Abandoned route."
"Still usable?"
"We'll find out."
The deeper we went, the cooler it got.
The air changed.
Old metal. Damp stone. The scent of long-dead machinery and time.
And beneath it all—the slow, steady pulse of that crate.
Still alive.
Still waiting.
Nyx was unsettled.
This place reeks of ghosts.
I didn't disagree.
But I kept walking.
Because forward was the only direction left.