September 26th.
Warsaw has maybe a week left.
Everyone knows it. Nobody says it.
We just keep fighting, keep rationing ammunition that's running out, keep patching wounds that won't heal properly, keep pretending tomorrow might be different.
It won't be.
Kasia left again yesterday.
More messages to run, more cells to contact, more intel to gather before the city falls completely.
We didn't talk about the night in the ruined building. Didn't need to.
What happened, happened.
What it means, we'll figure out if we survive long enough.
If we survive being the operative phrase.
I watch her disappear into the smoke-filled streets with Jakub beside me.
"You're going to worry yourself sick, młody," he says.
"Not worried."
"Terrible liar."
He lights a cigarette, offers me one.
"She'll be back. She always comes back."
"Until she doesn't."
"Then we mourn and keep fighting. But until then, we trust she knows what she's doing."
He exhales smoke.
"Besides, you should worry about your own survival first. Marek has a mission for us."
"Us?"
"You, me, Thompson, Walsh. Supply run."
"Where?"
"Abandoned sector northwest of here. Germans cleared it days ago, moved on. Intel says there might be medical supplies left in the buildings. Maybe ammunition."
He shrugs.
"Probably nothing. But worth checking."
"When?"
"One hour."
---
The northwestern sector is a graveyard.
Buildings collapsed into rubble piles.
Streets cratered beyond recognition.
Bodies everywhere—military and civilian, Polish and German, all equal in death.
The smell is overwhelming, even through the smoke that hangs perpetually in the air.
We move carefully, weapons ready, checking every shadow.
Germans might have moved on, but that doesn't mean we're alone.
Scavengers, desperate civilians, enemy stragglers—any of them could be hiding in these ruins.
Jakub leads us to a row of buildings that are mostly intact.
"Medical clinic was here," he says, pointing to one. "Before the bombing. If there's anything left, it'll be in the basement."
We clear the building room by room.
Ground floor is destroyed—walls collapsed, ceiling gone, nothing salvageable.
But the stairs to the basement are intact.
Thompson goes first, flashlight cutting through darkness.
I follow, rifle ready.
Jakub and Walsh cover our backs.
The basement is chaos.
Shelves overturned, medicine scattered, cabinets torn open.
Someone else already scavenged here, took everything valuable.
"Damn," Thompson says. "Nothing left."
We search anyway.
Find a few bandages, some antiseptic that's probably expired, morphine vials that are mostly empty.
Better than nothing, but not much.
"Check the other buildings," Jakub says. "Maybe we'll have better luck."
---
We don't have better luck.
Three more buildings, three more basements already scavenged clean.
Whatever was here, someone else found it first.
"Waste of time," Walsh mutters.
"Maybe."
Jakub studies the street, frowning.
"But there's one more place. Underground shelter three blocks north. Built before the war, stocked with supplies. Germans might not have found it."
"Why not?"
"Entrance is hidden. You'd have to know it was there."
He starts moving.
"Worth checking."
We follow him through rubble corridors and around craters, staying low, watching for threats.
The sector feels wrong—too quiet, too empty, like something's watching from the shadows.
My instincts scream danger.
"Jakub," I say quietly. "Something's off."
He stops. Listens.
"I don't hear anything."
"That's the problem. No birds. No rats. Nothing alive."
Thompson scans the ruins.
"Kid's right. This place feels wrong."
"Germans cleared it days ago," Walsh says. "Probably killed everything."
Maybe.
Or maybe something else is here.
Something that scared everything else away.
"Shelter's just ahead," Jakub says. "Five minutes, in and out. Then we leave."
---
The shelter entrance is exactly where Jakub said: beneath a collapsed shop front, hidden by rubble that looks random but is actually carefully placed.
You'd walk past it a hundred times and never notice.
We shift the rubble carefully, reveal a metal door set into concrete.
Heavy. Sealed.
A wheel lock in the center, like a submarine hatch.
"Germans definitely didn't find this," Thompson says.
Jakub spins the wheel.
Rusty but functional.
The lock disengages with a heavy clunk.
He pulls the door open, revealing darkness and a metal staircase descending into black.
"Anyone have a flashlight?"
Thompson hands him one.
Jakub shines it down the stairs.
Empty. Dusty. Undisturbed.
"I'll go first," I say.
"Rio—"
"Something's down there. I can feel it."
The fragments pulse, warning or recognition, hard to tell which.
"If it's dangerous, better I find it first."
Jakub looks at me for a long moment.
Then nods.
"You go first. I'm right behind you. Thompson and Walsh, cover the entrance. Anything goes wrong, you seal this door and get out."
"And leave you?"
"And not die stupidly."
He checks his pistol.
"Ready, młody?"
"No."
"Good. Let's go."