They were approaching the surface.
The tunnel sloped upward gently, almost imperceptibly, but their breaths grew shorter—less from fatigue than instinct. A different scent filtered through the cracked grates: not quite fresh air, no, but something less stagnant, a hint of moss, of dead leaves… the faint promise of the green zone.
Julius, at the front, had frozen before a drainage mouth eaten away by time. He carefully pried aside the twisted plates, his movements unhurried. Outside, the light was green and dirty, filtered through the dried foliage of the park.
They emerged one by one, like heavy memories refusing to stay buried. Dylan came out last, still wrapped in his blanket like a second skin, his gaze wary. The park stretched before them, dreary, petrified. The towering stone figures loomed in the morning mist like paused specters.
No one in sight. At least, not yet.
