The tunnel beneath Zeta-3 wasn't built for people. Not anymore.
It curled like a scar beneath the biotech plant — a runoff artery meant to bleed waste and secrets into the city's forgotten layers. Air hung cold and wet, thick with the metallic taste of rust and long-decayed circuitry. Water from cracked steam lines dripped at irregular intervals, echoing with a heartbeat's wrong rhythm.
Hernan moved first, body low beneath the rusted curve of the ceiling. His shoulder lamp threw thin arcs of light across the pipework, casting flickering ribcage shadows over faded warning glyphs. In those brief illuminations, it almost looked like the walls were breathing — slowly, raggedly.
Gemini followed in silence. Her eyes never left his back.
They hadn't spoken since descending.
It wasn't the silence of caution.
It was the silence of gravity.
"This junction's not listed on any city grid," she finally said, her voice nearly lost in the drip-drip-drip of condensation.
