NOVPUBDon's words settled over the group like a cold front.
Agent Hathaway didn't respond immediately. He just adjusted his grip on the sidearm, the weapon rising slightly as his other hand flicked on the light attachment.
The beam cut down the tunnel in a sharp cone, catching dust and the occasional glint of red where fluids had congealed on the walls.
Charles didn't bother with a weapon. His stance shifted—alert, focused—but restrained. The tunnel's narrow width meant his wings were out of the question unless he wanted to wedge himself in like a trapped bat.
Still, there wasn't a flicker of unease in his expression. "How far?" he asked, eyes tracking the darkness ahead.
Don didn't look away from the corridor. He lowered his center of gravity slightly, bracing his legs and letting his senses widen. The static sensation of Beastshift coursed through him—muscle fibers taut, bones readjusting with quiet efficiency. Then, with barely a breath, he activated Tactical Advance (Silver).
A soft fzzzt vibrated around him, like someone had dropped an electric veil over his frame.
"Four hundred meters," he said.
Agent Hathaway inhaled deeply, forcing composure into his posture. "Don't worry," he muttered. "Whatever it is, it won't survive one shot from this."
He lifted the pistol slightly higher, pride bleeding through the unease. "Even a B-Grade superhuman would feel this."
Don didn't reply.
He didn't doubt the firepower—he knew enough weapons that could punch holes through worse than armor. But that feeling from before lingered. That static itch crawling up the base of his neck. He didn't trust it.
"Three hundred," he said quietly.
The air felt thicker now. Not hot like before. Just full.
Charles took a single step forward, eyes narrowing as he watched the end of the tunnel, just as Don added, "Two hundred."
The growling had returned—low, constant, and layered. Like two animals speaking over each other.
Then came the sound of impact. Heavy. Rhythmic.
**Thmp** **Thmp** **Thmp**
Running.
Agent Hathaway stepped forward, just past Don. "Move aside, kid."
Don didn't argue. He shifted to the left, a single step. Charles gave Hathaway a side glance—half skeptical, half curious.
"Hundred meters," Don said, voice flat now.
Hathaway's knuckles tightened around the gun. The light beam shook slightly. He grit his teeth and re-centered his stance.
The growl rose. It reverberated through the narrow corridor, bouncing and doubling in waves of wrongness.
Then, from the dark—
It appeared.
It moved low and fast, a blur of limbs and spines. Its body was long and skeletal, skin stretched too thin across bones that didn't match any natural species.
Elbows bent the wrong way. Ribs jutted outward. Its jaw—long, broken, and flared with sharp edges—dripped with blood both fresh and clotted. The eye sockets glowed faintly, not with light, but with hunger.
Don knew it instantly.
The same creature from Amanda's farm.
He didn't flinch.
Agent Hathaway did.
His breath caught mid-step, and for just a second, all thoughts of seniority and field rank vanished. He had never seen anything like that.
Charles tensed, but didn't blink.
Then it charged.
**RRRRAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHKKK—** 𝙣𝒐𝙫𝙥𝙪𝙗.𝙘𝙤𝙢
Fifty meters.
Agent Hathaway fired.
**BOOOM—**
The tunnel lit up like a lightning strike. A flash of white-hot energy burst from the muzzle, momentarily drowning the creature's outline in brightness.
The sound wasn't a gunshot—it was a miniature blast wave, rattling the stone around them and forcing both Don and Charles to turn their heads.
Then silence.
Their ears rang. Static filled the void.
When vision returned, the creature was on the ground. Its head looked like someone had fired a shotgun full of white phosphorous into it—half gone, the rest blistered and sagging, half-melted bone jutting out from the crater.
It twitched once, then again. Legs spasmed. A claw flexed weakly.
But it wasn't getting up.
Agent Hathaway exhaled.
Hard.
He took a step back and laughed once, shaky but triumphant.
"Told you," he muttered. "That wasn't so hard."
His face softened, letting some bravado creep in.
Don didn't move.
Charles leaned in slightly, observing the corpse without touching it. "Curious."
Then Don's head turned. Not toward the corridor.
Toward Agent Hathaway.
"How many bullets do you have?"
Hathaway, still drunk on adrenaline, raised an eyebrow.
"Thirteen rounds left in the mag. Four more on me. Why?"
Don took a step back.
His voice was quiet.
"Then it won't be enough."
That pulled the air out of the moment.
"Huh?" Hathaway blinked.
Charles was already turning toward Don, dreading the answer.
Don's eyes didn't waver.
"I can sense more," he said.
Pausing for a moment.
"A lot more."
———
Meanwhile, elsewhere in the tunnels…
**Thump**
A faint vibration passed underfoot. Subtle. Almost not worth noticing.
But it was enough.
The lead figure of Division D, known only as the Captain, came to a halt. He didn't yell. Didn't flinch. Just raised one closed fist.
The unit behind him stopped in unison.
Not a word.
Then, after a moment—"What's wrong, Cap? You see something?" came a voice from behind. Corporal Myles. Always the first to speak and the last to shut up.
All five of them slowly lifted their rifles, night scopes adjusting automatically with soft mechanical whirrs.
"I'm not picking anything up," came another voice—Weller, their tech specialist, eyes fixed on the handheld console connected to their forward drone.
"Yeah," muttered Carrow, the one with the lowest patience for irony, "because walls covered in liquified corpses and botanical goop are standard issue now."
He paused and muttered, "Shit, my mom was right. Should've been a lawyer."
A chuckle. "You're not even smart enough to work a McChicken," said Baptiste, deadpan from the rear.
"Shut up," Myles shot back, already annoyed.
"Both of you, shut it," the Captain snapped. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
He scanned the corridor slowly, nostrils flaring slightly.
"I smell blood."
That silenced the banter.
A moment passed before Carrow muttered, "Uh, Cap, not to sound like a jackass, but we're kinda hip-deep in blood. Sort of the local décor here."
The Captain didn't blink.
"No. Fresh."
The others glanced at each other. That word still meant something down here.
Weller looked up from the drone feed and nodded toward the others. "He's not joking. The Captain's nose is freaky. Picked out a gut wound from thirty meters through two layers of body armor back in Takun Ridge."
"Could be one of the missing," Baptiste offered quietly. "If they're still in one piece."
"Yeah, I'm not betting this is a rescue anymore," Carrow muttered. "This feels like a cleanup. Body bag optional."
"Enough," the Captain said.
They fell silent. The air felt wrong again—off rhythm. Weller's drone still showed nothing but empty corridor.
Then the Captain turned, rifle raising sharply.
"Guns up."
Click-clack. Four rifles followed suit. No hesitation now.
They weren't guessing anymore.
"Something's coming."
