The air in the underground bunker was stale.
Not the ordinary kind of stale that came from a room being shut too long, but the kind that settled heavily in the lungs, thick and unmoving, as though the space itself had forgotten how to breathe. It clung to the skin and coated the back of the throat, unmistakable proof that the bunker hadn't been aired in days—perhaps longer.
Worse than that was the metallic tang that lingered beneath it.
It was sharp and oppressive, hanging in the air so densely that it seemed to override every other scent. It didn't fade or dissipate; it simply existed, heavy and persistent, like a warning no one bothered to acknowledge anymore.
The bunker itself was wide—unexpectedly so—and starkly illuminated. Stadium-grade lights were embedded into the ceiling, flooding the space with blinding white brightness. The kind of lighting meant for crowds and cameras, not for rest. Not for comfort. No human being could reasonably sleep beneath such lights.
