Silence returned to the tunnels—but not peace.
The captured Host had been dragged into the containment cell, locked behind layers of analog steel and insulated concrete. The rebels dispersed in shaking groups, pretending they weren't afraid, pretending their hands weren't trembling from the sound of a god's whisper cutting through reality.
Only Player Zero remained in the central hall.
Their goggles lay cracked on the ground. Their breath came in short, furious bursts. The cold damp of the tunnel clung to their skin, mixing with sweat and the faint metallic taste of blood at the back of their throat.
It wasn't just a transmission that invaded their mind.
It was presence.
It was intention.
It was prophecy.
A whisper that felt like a hand closing gently—almost lovingly—around their skull.
Player Zero pressed a shaking palm to the wall as the echoes faded, grounding themself against cold concrete, forcing the thoughts not to slip back in.
He's coming for all of us.
