The decision was made without toasts or blessings.
A few minutes later, Dylan was descending into the city's bowels, wrapped in his moth-eaten blanket like a fallen king off to wage a crusade. Behind him, Julius led the way with the confidence of a drunken mountain guide, while the three other soldiers brought up the rear, weapons shaky but eyes resolved.
Their entry point? A manhole cover behind an abandoned butcher shop, still reeking of rancid grease and half-washed memories. Julius lifted the grate with disturbing ease, like he'd done it all his life—or had simply stopped pretending he was headed anywhere but down.
"If anyone thinks it stinks, congratulations, you're still alive. Enjoy it," he said before vanishing into the black maw.
Dylan followed. The iron ladder was freezing, each rung biting into his bare feet, every motion reminding him that his body wasn't built for this. Not yet. But he went down anyway. Because the dead don't walk, and he still had things to do.
