Days slipped by in uneasy silence. The bunker, cold and dim, held its breath as the survivors waited—cloaked in fear, nursing wounds, and haunted by the relentless hunt. Outside, the world remained twisted and hostile, its strange happiness a sick joke they couldn't laugh at.
The chief's voice cut through the heavy air like a razor. "We cannot survive on shadows and hope alone," he declared, his scarred face set in grim determination. "We need food. Supplies. Anything to keep us alive."
He gathered a small group—seasoned fighters with wary eyes and tight jaws. Among them were Adrain, the prosthetic-handed scout, and Mora, whose cold, calculating gaze missed nothing.
Kale was asked to join the mission, but she declined, her voice cold with anger. "Not while Foden is still in their grasp," she said. "I'm not ready to trust anyone until he's free."
The chief's words carried weight, but also a cold warning. "Stay sharp. The conclave's patrols grow bolder. If you're caught, don't expect mercy."
Mora stepped forward, her voice steady but quiet. "We'll move swiftly. No mistakes."
As the group prepared to leave, the bunker doors groaned open, spilling cold light and the sharp scent of decay. The world outside awaited—unchanged, unforgiving, and watching.
Under the cloak of night, the group slipped silently from the bunker, shadows blending into shadows. The moon hung low, casting a pale, cold light that barely pierced the thick canopy of clouds above. Every sound seemed amplified—the soft rustle of boots on cracked concrete, the distant hum of drones cutting through the air like mechanical vultures.
Above them, the skies were patrolled relentlessly. The drones, sleek and unblinking, swept the cityscape with their cold sensors, searching for any sign of life beyond the Conclave's grasp. The team moved quickly, minds sharp and muscles coiled, always aware that one wrong step could summon death from above.
Mora led the way, her hand tight around the shaft of a long, weathered spear—its tip chipped but deadly, a weapon of both tradition and survival. Her eyes flicked toward the sky whenever a distant buzz sliced through the silence. "Drones sweep every fifteen minutes," she whispered, voice low and steady. "We have a narrow window."
They veered toward the old sewage tunnels—forgotten arteries beneath the city, dark and fetid. The rusted metal grate guarding the entrance groaned as Mora pried it open, the stench of decay and rot spilling out like a living thing. Without hesitation, they descended into the choking darkness, their footsteps muffled by the thick, damp air.
Inside, the tunnels twisted and turned in a labyrinth of filth. Rats scurried in the shadows, disturbed by the intrusion, their eyes glinting like tiny embers. Water pooled in deep, cold patches, forcing the group to carefully pick their way, balancing on broken pipes and slippery stones.
Suddenly, a low groan echoed ahead. From the shadows emerged a gaunt figure—a homeless man, his clothes ragged and soaked, eyes hollow but alert. Mora raised her spear cautiously, but the man raised a trembling hand in peace.
"They know we're out here," he rasped, voice cracked like dry earth. "The Conclave… they're forcing chips into everyone now. Says it's for 'safety'—control. But those who resist, those who won't submit… they're gone. Exterminated without mercy."
Mora's grip tightened on the spear. "How recent is this?"
"Last week," the man whispered. "No one's safe anymore. The streets watch you. The sky watches you. Only fools try to fight."
The team exchanged uneasy glances. The weight of the man's words settled over them like a dark cloud, thick and suffocating.
Mora nodded slowly. "Thank you. Stay hidden."
With that, they pressed deeper into the tunnels, the stale air heavy with fear and resolve.