Rain drizzled steadily from the bruised sky, cloaking the world in a wet grayness that blurred the lines between rubble and road, between body and shadow. The air was thick with the scent of charred earth and distant gunpowder. Smoke curled like serpents from a fallen skyscraper in the horizon, another monument of the old world reduced to ash.
Riven crouched under a shattered archway, his jacket soaked, his breath fogging the air as he kept his eyes on the street ahead. The silence around him was the kind that hummed with danger—the kind that only came before an ambush or a hunt. His grip tightened around the hilt of his combat knife, its blade reflecting flickers of dying neon signs from the ruined city blocks.
Behind him, Ayla moved silently, her footsteps barely audible over the rain. She had grown even quieter these past few days—ever since they lost Finn. Riven didn't bring it up. There was no room for grief in this world, only the cold discipline of survival.
"Scanners show minimal movement," Ayla whispered, lowering the wristpad she had scavenged from an old military drone. "But something's interfering with the signal."
Riven nodded. That interference had become more common ever since the storm two nights ago. Electrical storms now did more than knock out lights—they seemed to wake things. Mutated beasts, corrupted tech, even the dead. Something in the atmosphere had changed, as if the apocalypse itself had layers they were only just beginning to peel away.
They were close to the central nexus—a government archive bunker rumored to house hard drives with schematics, maps, and possibly answers. But the closer they got, the stranger things became. Time felt distorted here. Their watches no longer synced. Shadows lingered where they shouldn't.
As they approached a plaza filled with cracked statues and skeletal trees, Riven slowed. "This place was a memorial. For the first responders."
Ayla's eyes scanned the engraved names. Some were faded, some freshly scorched as if someone had tried to erase them.
"Do you think any of them made it through... this?" she asked.
"No one made it through this," Riven said grimly. "We're not survivors. We're just... leftovers."
A sudden rustling in the distance made them freeze.
From between the pillars of a collapsed courthouse, a figure emerged. Not a beast. Not a drone.
A girl.
She couldn't have been older than ten. Drenched, barefoot, with a tattered red scarf dragging behind her like a flag of surrender. Her eyes were wide, not with fear—but with something Riven hadn't seen in a long time.
Hope.
She stared at them for a moment before turning and running down an alley.
Riven cursed under his breath. "Trap. It's gotta be."
But Ayla was already moving.
"Ayla—wait!"
He followed, reluctantly, his boots splashing through puddles of black water. The alley twisted, the walls narrowing like a throat about to swallow them. The girl darted into a building—a half-collapsed metro station. Lights flickered faintly from inside.
Ayla slipped through the broken turnstile. "She might be leading us to shelter."
"Or into a den of biters," Riven muttered. "You trust too easily."
"You distrust too much," she snapped.
He didn't argue. Not now.
They found her curled up near an old vending machine, surrounded by flickering battery lanterns and neatly arranged cans of food. She looked up as they entered, unafraid.
"My name's Nova," she said quietly. "You're not like the others."
Riven raised an eyebrow. "Others?"
"The ones with masks. They smell like metal. They scream in static. They come at night."
Ayla knelt beside her. "Where are your parents, Nova?"
"Gone," she whispered. "Since the sky cracked."
Riven's jaw tightened. Another storm orphan.
Nova pointed deeper into the tunnels. "There's something down there. Something big. It breathes like thunder."
"Wonderful," Riven said. "Another cryptic child with ominous warnings."
But Ayla was already pulling out a flashlight. "Let's check it. If there's something we can't handle, we fall back. If not… this might be a safe base."
They descended into the lower metro levels. Rusted tracks stretched ahead into darkness. Strange markings were painted along the walls in black and red—symbols that hurt Riven's eyes if he stared too long.
"Who did this?" Ayla murmured.
"Cultists," Riven guessed. "Or worse."
The air thickened as they walked. It smelled of rot, ozone, and something ancient.
Then they heard it.
Breathing.
Massive. Slow. Wet.
Riven raised his blade.
From the shadows emerged a shape that defied natural logic. Flesh and wires intertwined. Dozens of eyes blinked in unison. A mouth too wide. Limbs too many. It was once human. Or something that wore a human's memory.
It let out a sound like broken speakers and moved.
Fast.
Riven shoved Ayla aside just as a claw swiped past her. He lunged, knife slashing across one of the creature's eyes. It screamed, and walls cracked from the force.
Ayla pulled out a charged pulse grenade and hurled it. It exploded in a wave of electricity that sent the thing twitching and writhing into the walls.
But it wasn't dead.
It was learning.
Riven grabbed Ayla. "Back. Now!"
They sprinted back through the tunnel, the monster crashing after them.
Nova was waiting at the turnstile.
"Down here!" she shouted, pointing to a maintenance shaft.
Without thinking, they dove in, the hatch slamming behind them as the monster howled.
For several minutes, they sat in darkness, panting.
Nova lit a candle from her pack. Her hands didn't tremble.
"You're strong," Ayla said, genuinely impressed.
"I had to be," Nova replied. "It's only ever been me down here. And them."
"Them?" Riven asked.
She nodded slowly. "There's more. That one… he's not even the worst."
The candlelight flickered as a gust of wind blew through the shaft, carrying with it a voice—not a human voice, but a mechanical imitation.
"WE REMEMBER YOU, RIVEN."
His blood ran cold.
That voice.
That was impossible.
Ayla turned to him, eyes wide. "What the hell was that?"
He didn't answer. Because the truth was something he had buried deep beneath years of running, of hiding, of pretending.
The enemy knew his name.
And that meant something far worse was coming.