Vera

The tunnels breathed.

That was the only way I could describe it. The air came in slow, heavy pulls, as if the walls themselves were alive— inhaling the rainwater that dripped from the cracks, exhaling the ghosts of the men who’d built them.

I moved deeper, pistol steady in both hands. Every footstep echoed too loudly. The darkness pressed against my skin, thick and damp, whispering promises I refused to hear.

Somewhere ahead, metal clanged, followed by voices—low, rhythmic. A ...