Deep in the subway, the air was thick with damp and rust.
Tap, tap!
Three surviving SWAT officers ran through the dark passage, their boots thudding dully and fast over dust and puddles.
Huff… huff!
Their breathing was rough, mingled with the metallic clatter of guns and gear, echoing down the narrow tunnel like an invisible alarm reminding them—
time was almost up.
Concealment was no longer an option. All three knew that if they hesitated any longer, the shelter might be overtaken by the Blood Cross before they made it back, and then fall.
This run had been meant to be a routine scouting and resupply. It had turned into a rout.
Half their comrades were down. Every nerve was stretched to the breaking point. What weighed heaviest was that they had never heard the captain's final blast.
Those improvised charges had been their last hope of living.
But now there was no fire, no thunder. It was as if darkness had swallowed everything.
"The captain… did he…?"
One officer couldn't help whispering as he ran, voice low with fear he didn't dare speak aloud.
Another stayed silent, fingers white on his rifle.
They all knew that if even the captain hadn't managed to blow himself up—if he had even turned into one of the Blood Cross—then the shelter's safety was fully exposed.
At that point, no iron door, however thick, would be more than a coffin lid.
They didn't let themselves think more. They pushed harder.
Before long, a nondescript iron door appeared at the end of the tunnel—the disguised entrance to a subway maintenance room.
Footprints were messy at the threshold; the floor still showed signs of being mopped.
They halted and glanced at one another, breath still ragged as they forced the panic down.
One officer drew a deep breath, lifted his hand, and rapped quickly—
Three long, two short.
A crisp, tight rhythm.
After a brief silence came the scrape of metal inside.
Then, with a click, the heavy door eased open, leaving a narrow slit.
Behind it, a pair of bloodshot eyes gleamed—sharp, cautious—only relaxing when they recognized who it was.
"It's you."
The door was opened by a gray-haired veteran officer. He was thin, but his hands held an old pump shotgun steady, the muzzle throwing a cold glint in the dim light.
His voice was hoarse, the weight of years of cigarettes and fatigue.
When he saw only three had returned, a flash of shock and pain crossed his brows.
He mastered it quickly, face cooling to calm again—but his grip on the shotgun tightened, almost imperceptibly.
"Where are the others?"
The few words dropped like stones in the tunnel, making the air even heavier.
The three said nothing, heads bowed. Silence said more than words.
The old officer's eye twitched; the lines on his face seemed deeper.
"Yeah… I know."
He nodded slowly. His sigh rolled through the narrow passage, steeped in helpless sorrow.
He didn't press. The answer was already written on their dust- and blood-caked figures.
He stepped aside to clear a path and murmured, "Get in. Don't leave a trail for what's out there to scent."
They filed in. The door shut behind them; the heavy lock fell with a click, cutting off the cold stench outside.
But they all knew that no iron door could truly shut out the coming storm.
Inside the "maintenance room," the space opened up.
Survivors had turned it into a makeshift shelter. Dim bulbs hung from the ceiling, lighting scattered cots, rough tables and chairs, and stacks of supplies.
Dozens of survivors sat or lay about, faces pale, eyes exhausted—like animals pushed to a cliff, wary and numb.
As the three SWAT officers appeared, many looked up with a mix of hope and questions.
When they saw how few had returned—and empty-handed—the air sank into deathly silence again.
A young mother instinctively clutched her feverish child tighter, eyes flashing with unease. A middle-aged man's Adam's apple bobbed; he seemed about to speak but only clenched his jaw, mute.
Disappointment, grief, fear…
Those feelings spread without a sound.
The three officers' hearts sank further.
They knew everyone was waiting for them to bring back an answer—and this answer was more despairing than death.
The old officer stepped to the front and said in a low voice, "They've done everything they could."
The simple words made the shelter's grief surge like a tide.
Some wept softly. Some slumped and covered their faces. More only ground their teeth and forced back tears.
The cramped maintenance room was shrouded in despair again.
No one dared wail. No one dared ask too much. Everyone knew the world outside could swallow them whole at any moment.
Under that dead hush, the three SWAT officers traded a look, and a heavier thought took hold—
If the captain truly hadn't held out and had turned Blood Cross, their hideout probably wouldn't hold for long.
"We have to evacuate. This place will be exposed to them," one officer said, voice hard. "We have to start an emergency transfer now."
The air seemed to congeal at once. It was so heavy it made breathing hurt.
Under the dim bulb, the plan stabbed straight into every survivor's heart.
Just then, one of the officers noticed the remaining makeshift bombs stacked in a corner—rough devices pieced together from scrap. They seemed to exude an icy aura, like death whispering.
"If we act as bait…" the officer said, voice raw as if each word drained him, "we can draw the Blood Cross off—at least leave everyone a way to live."
A wave of protests rose at once.
"Absolutely not!"
"If you go, what about us? There's only one old officer left. We won't even be able to hold the door!"
"We won't last a few days! Without you, it's the same as giving up!"
Fear, anger, and despair collided and broke like a bursting dam.
Hands shook and slammed tables, eyes rimmed red. Others clung to family and shook their heads desperately, terrified the last guardians would be stripped away the next second.
The three officers' faces darkened. They understood the fear, but reason told them the shelter wasn't a long-term answer.
If the Blood Cross truly tracked them here, waiting only pushed death back a few hours.
The old officer slowly raised his shotgun. After a long silence, he spoke: "I know what you mean. But without you, these people won't last a week. If you go… they—and I—are just waiting to die."
The words weren't loud, but they weighed like lead on every heart.
The SWAT officers were the last shield.
They knew tactics, handled guns, and had the courage and experience to trade with the Blood Cross.
If they left, no door would be anything but paper.
A young officer clenched his jaw, fists knotted. He looked at the survivors before him, eyes full of struggle and unwillingness. "But if we do nothing, once the Blood Cross find this place, everyone dies anyway."
That silenced the room.
Yes. Doing nothing meant waiting for the knife.
Doing something might leave a sliver of life.
But human nature being what it is, in the face of death, few are willing to go willingly.
A trembling whisper rose in the crowd: "Then… then we die together. At least dying here beats starving to death."
The words were a fuse. The brief quiet curdled into muffled sobs. More eyes went blank to the ground, as if they'd accepted judgment.
In the end, they chose—
To hold, and hope to hold.
They couldn't flee; they had no power to find another shelter. The only option was to stand here.
If the Blood Cross found them, they would fight to the last drop.
It wasn't true courage, but a helpless stubbornness—like a penned herd that, even knowing the hunter's barrel lay ahead, would still throw itself forward to win a shred of dignity at the end.
The three officers' looks were as conflicted as they came. Disappointment flashed in their eyes, then hardened into resolve.
They knew it wasn't the best option—but it was the choice most were able to bear.
"Then we'll stand with you."
The lead officer finally spoke, low and firm.
The promise helped still the panic, if only a little. People clutched their loved ones tighter, like the last straw they could grip.
The old officer nodded, lines deepening.
He knew what the decision meant, but said nothing more. He walked to the iron door, ran his hand over the rusty latch, and a spark of resolve flickered in his eyes.
"Then we hold to the last moment."
Under the dim light, the air sharpened with a scent of murder.
Everyone moved in silence—picking up what tools they had, shifting supplies, trying to turn the ramshackle shelter into a final strongpoint.
They were no longer refugees scraping by. They were fighters fated to meet their reckoning in these underground halls.
Even on their last breath, they would struggle until lights and blood ran out.
Not long after—
Thud, thud!
Since the first low steps outside, everyone had held their breath like startled animals.
Children clung to their parents' clothes, eyes wild. Adults clenched makeshift weapons, sweat beading on their brows.
The officers set their stances, muzzles up, trained tightly on the rusted gate. The old officer stood at the front, both hands on the shotgun, eyes cold.
The steps slowed… and stopped.
For an instant, every heartbeat stilled. The air seemed to hum with the sound of blood flowing.
Parents clapped hands over small mouths. The space sank into deathly quiet.
Szzzt—!
A shrill rip of sound like a blade scoring iron stabbed at their nerves.
The thick metal door's face lit with a blazing red line. Sparks spat and smoke curled with a scorched stink—some high-energy laser was cutting the gate.
"They've… found us."
A young officer whispered, fingers trembling but still on the trigger.
Children began to shiver; their whimpers sliced the silence.
"Not a sound from anyone!" the old officer hissed through clenched teeth.
The cutting went on. Sparks pattered into the dust and smoked—an overture to death.
Boom—!
With a crash the heavy metal gate finally tore under a violent impact and slammed to the floor.
In that instant, the officers and the old man fired on instinct.
Boom—tat tat tat—!
The shotgun and rifles thundered in the cramped space; tongues of flame belched; bullets poured at the shadow in the doorway like a storm.
What came back wasn't a scream—
Ting! Tang! Ting!
It was the crisp ring of metal struck by metal.
Rounds had no bite. They hit like pebbles on a steel wall—sparks flew, but nothing budged.
The taut tension snapped.
At last the colossus stood before them.
Nearly four meters tall, a giant encased in heavy armor—a moving iron fortress.
Calling it "human" hardly fit. It was a walking engine of war.
He wore a dark, coatlike mantle that swayed with his movements, but it couldn't hide the massif of steel beneath.
Every edge of the plates gleamed coldly. Numbers were etched on shoulder, breast, and vambrace.
This wasn't a normal soldier at all, but one of the human Empire's engineered bioweapons—
A Tyrant.
Red optics glowed under the helmet, sweeping the shelter like blades.
It was a cold, merciless gaze—no humanity—only the battlefield's killing chill and pressure.
!!!
Breaths seized as one. The weapons in their hands felt like toys. They couldn't even raise the will to keep firing.
Veins stood out on the old officer's forehead. He still held the shotgun up, a wall in front of the crowd.
He knew they couldn't fight what stood there—but as their last shield, he had to stand.
"What the hell kind of monster is that now?"
A SWAT officer ground the words out. Cold sweat slid along his temple; his voice was almost a rasp.
The Tyrant only stood, broad breastplate rising and falling slightly. At the same time, the aftershocks of a great many footfalls still rolled through the tunnels.
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