The first glimpse of solid land was a pale gray on the horizon.
The cargo ship advanced slowly, coughing out black smoke that blended with the icy wind. Saravia was sitting on a pile of crates, legs swinging like she was at a playground, while Martin rubbed his hands together, trying to shake off the cold that cut through skin.
Daytona leaned against the railing, eyes fixed on the shape of the coastline rising ahead. Lisbon was a promise of solid ground — but also a transition. Nothing about it felt inviting. The cloudy sky, the restless sea, the cranes creaking like starving old giants.
Belzebub whispered in her mind, the tone so calm it was chilling:
"You are closer to answers, Daytona. But every answer demands a price."
She didn't reply — just pulled the black cloak closer to her face, breathing in the smell of rust that clung to everything it touched.
When the cargo ship docked, Ghost appeared again, as if he'd never left. He showed up next to them, hands in his pockets, no sign of luggage. Martin jumped.
— "Why do you always show up out of nowhere, man?!"
Ghost raised an eyebrow, amused. — "You talk too loud. And I hear too well."
Saravia ignored him, hopping off the crates, anchor clanging against the metal floor.
— "Are we stepping on land now, or is there gonna be a speech, Daytona?"
Daytona looked at Martin, already carrying his backpack like it was a life vest.
— "Come on."
Walking down the ramp to the dock, the smell of rotten fish mixed with diesel from the trucks. Workers came and went, stacking crates, shouting orders in fast Portuguese Daytona couldn't understand. Ghost led the way, walking like he never needed to ask for permission.
They spent hours weaving through container alleys, following Ghost without argument. Eventually, they reached a half-hidden warehouse where a black car waited. Ghost opened the trunk — full of supplies, crumpled maps, and three fake passports.
Martin picked one up and read aloud:
— "Luciano Albuquerque?" — He looked at Daytona. — "Seriously? Now I'm Luciano?"
Saravia burst out laughing, nearly dropping the anchor.
— "Shut up, Luciano. Let's go."
Ghost tossed the keys to Daytona.
— "You drive. Don't stop for anything. We're crossing Portugal to the border. I'll handle the rest."
The black car was swallowed by the road. Lisbon faded behind them like a salty memory, covered by gray clouds and low-flying seagulls. Daytona kept her hands steady on the wheel, eyes locked on the wet asphalt.
Inside, Belzebub murmured:
"Do you feel it? Traces of others like me… but these traces hide. Beings disguised as light."
She whispered, low enough that Martin couldn't hear:
— "You mean Angels?"
Belzebub didn't answer — a heavy silence, as if confirming.
Saravia slept curled up in the back seat, hugging the anchor like a child holds a pillow. Martin, next to Daytona, scribbled on a folded map — drawing arrows, circles, X's. He seemed like he wanted to understand everything — and nothing at the same time.
— "You know, Daytona…" — he broke the silence. — "We're heading to Germany like it's a school field trip. But I feel like that lab is the rabbit hole, right? Like… there's no coming back after it."
Daytona took a deep breath, eyes still on the road.
— "I think there was never any coming back once Belzebub got in my head."
Hours passed. Gas stations, quick stops for cheap food, the smell of bad coffee, tires squealing on wet pavement. Night fell across the Spanish border — and on the other side, the road became uncomfortably silent. Saravia woke up, rubbing her eyes.
— "Already in Spain?" — she asked, voice hoarse.
— "Almost in Germany," — Ghost replied from the passenger seat. — "Did you sleep well?"
Saravia flashed a wide grin, tousling her hair.
— "I dreamed of Leviathan. He said he'll breathe fire when I get there."
Martin's eyes widened.
— "A sea serpent that breathes fire? That make sense to you guys?"
Daytona stifled a laugh.
— "After what I've seen, everything makes sense."
The car kept going until dawn, when they finally saw signs pointing to Nürburgring. Germany's green fields looked like damp carpets, and the cold cut sharper than in Portugal.
And in the distance, Daytona saw something she didn't expect:
Tall gates of the lab — an old, crumbling building, hidden behind barbed wire fences and thick forests.
Ghost nodded toward it:
— "That's it. The place where you're going to open doors even God might wish stayed shut."
Martin swallowed hard. Saravia tightened her grip on the anchor. Daytona breathed in, feeling Belzebub go silent — as if even he held his breath.
— "Ready?" — she asked, looking at the two.
Martin replied with a sigh. Saravia raised two fingers in a victory sign, half mocking.
The car stopped in front of the gates. The engine groaned, tired.
The entrance was there — waiting. And Daytona knew: there was no road back.
The black car was left behind, swallowed by the morning mist. The four walked on foot, entering the damp corridor of dense trees that formed the legendary Green Hell. Branches scraped against clothes, the ground was a mix of mud, dead leaves, and the distant echo of ghost engines — Nürburgring still whispered races from decades past.
Saravia took the lead, her dark brown eyes sharp with each step, the anchor bouncing gently with each movement. Martin came next, trying not to trip on roots, while Ghost kept one hand in his pocket, scanning every bush like he expected something to leap out at any moment.
Daytona, silent, felt the cold breeze brush her black cloak — which now felt like part of her. In her mind, Belzebub whispered:
"Setealem breathes here, but contained in underground corridors… This lab is an open wound in the flesh of the world."
She ignored him, focusing on the sounds — crows cawing, trunks creaking, leaves crunching under boots. Ghost suddenly stopped, raising a hand for them to freeze.
Ahead, a moss-covered slope — barely noticeable — revealed a formation of stones, arranged almost… ritualistically. Daytona felt a chill creep up her spine.
Saravia smiled, like she finally saw what she was looking for.
— "This is it. Leviathan showed me when I dreamed." — she said so casually it made Martin shiver.
She reached behind her with one arm, grabbing the anchor like it was a pen, and began spinning it by the chain. Daytona watched, fascinated — Saravia's aura seemed to pulse, like an invisible tide. Small puddles began to bubble. The air grew heavy, humid, almost suffocating.
Ghost frowned, adjusting his collar.
Martin stepped back, stumbling on a root.
— "What is she doing, exactly?"
Daytona took a deep breath.
— "Shut up, Martin."
Saravia said something — presumably her ability's command — too low for Daytona to hear, then began spinning the anchor harder, jumped high, and slammed it into the ground hard enough to create a crater. The earth groaned, cracks spread, trees leaned sideways, and leaves fell — forming a perfect circle of soaked earth.
A metal hatch, once hidden under roots and leaves, began to shift with a rough hiss. Cold vapor escaped through the cracks — the smell was rust, mold, and something sweet, almost rotten.
Saravia opened her eyes, panting.
— "Done. Rat hole's open."
Martin's eyes widened.
— "Are you sure it's safe? I mean… it's a hole in the middle of the forest!"
Ghost gave his shoulder a gentle shove.
— "Nothing's safe. That's why we're here."
Daytona looked at Saravia — who just slung the anchor over her shoulder, smiling almost like a kid.
Belzebub murmured in her mind:
"Good girl, Saravia. A Leviathan that obeys is more useful than one that sleeps."
Daytona didn't answer, but gripped the edge of the hatch, helping lift the rest of the structure. A damp metal stair led into a dark tunnel disappearing into blackness.
Saravia spat to the side.
— "Ladies first?"
Daytona let out a dry laugh, adjusted her cloak, and took a deep breath.
— "The brave go first."
She descended, feeling the cold air swallow her. The metallic sound of her steps echoed, mixing with the muffled dripping from somewhere below. Behind her, Martin trembled — from cold or fear — and Ghost and Saravia closed the hatch, descending last.
There was no natural light now. Only the faint glow of old flickering lamps in the concrete ceiling. The tunnel opened into a narrow corridor, reeking of rust and expired chemicals.
Daytona took a breath — and for the first time, realized the smell of the Green Hell had been cleaner than this place.
She turned to the group.
— "The lab starts here."
Saravia spun the anchor like a toy.
— "So do we knock, or tear the walls down?"
Ghost smiled.
— "Maybe both."
Belzebub, in Daytona's mind, whispered one last sentence before falling silent:
"Welcome to the rot they call science."
The heavy silence, the moldy air, the endless corridors — it all felt like a concrete throat swallowing them.
They took the first steps, shadows devouring every sound.
And the lab waited.