The rumbling didn't stop.
It pulsed through the ground like the earth itself was trying to cough something up. Loose dirt scattered across the floor. Hairline cracks crept along the cavern walls, slow but concerning.
Somewhere overhead, a wet snap sounded as a vine lost its grip and dropped, landing near Charles with a limp slpft.
But it wasn't the structural collapse that set Don on edge.
It was the figure standing near the boulder.
Father John—or what wore him—was changing. Not drastically. Not dramatically. Subtly. Which made it worse.
The smile had already stretched too wide, but now the eyes began to follow. Pupils fixed, but the whites expanded, eating more of the sockets. No blinking. No moisture. Just that steady, inhuman gaze.
Don's mouth tightened behind the gaiter.
"We need to leave," he said, voice almost lost in the rumbling.
Charles nodded immediately. Agent Hathaway, gun still raised, gave a sharp exhale and stepped forward, nodding toward the tunnel.
