The stairwell reeked of hot coolant, rusted blood, and something older — burned polymer maybe.
Hernan descended first, slow and steady, boots ghosting over the metal steps. Above them, neon vent shafts pulsed sickly green, carving jagged shadows across his jaw and long coat. Each flicker of light revealed just enough — a cold gleam in his eye, the tension in his jaw, the silence wrapped around him like armor.
Aya followed. Sparks twitched along her fingertips, subconscious tells bleeding into her skin. Her face said what her mouth didn't: she didn't trust this place. She didn't trust this silence. She didn't trust him.
Iro came last, silent as ashfall. He moved like shadow-mist — one moment there, the next half-phased into smoke, echoing footfalls soft and wrong. Watching Hernan's back. Or maybe waiting for it to turn.
They reached the bottom.
