Rin snapped out of her trance as the giant mimic's claws swiped, barely missing her chest. They tore through her jacket, leaving a stinging welt on her skin. The air hissed with its movement, and Hana's accusing whisper—"You left me…"—still rang in her head, a blade of guilt that cut deeper than the claws.
Jisoo tackled Rin to the edge of the platform, her knife flashing in the dim light, slashing the mimic's arm. Black blood sprayed, splattering the rusted tracks below. Its foul smell mixed with the tunnel's damp, rotting odor.
Jihoon swung his broken mop stick, useless but desperate. His voice cracked in a raw scream—"Rin!"—as he stumbled back, tears glistening on his pale, dirty face.
The mimic's face shifted grotesquely—Hana's soft features melting into Jihoon's sister's, then another's. Its eyes shimmered with trapped memories, and its whisper faded into a low, buzzing drone.
Rin scrambled to her feet, her metal pipe trembling in her grip, and swung hard, cracking its jaw with a sickening crunch that echoed off the concrete. The mimic staggered, its face collapsing into a waxy ruin.
The platform shook under the humming sound's roaring pulse, a vibration that seemed to claw at the walls themselves.
"Run!" Jisoo barked, her voice sharp, dragging Jihoon toward the tracks, her bloody shoulder trembling but her grip strong.
They leapt onto the rusted rails, the metal groaning under their weight. The tunnel's damp air bit their lungs with a chill that tasted of mold and rust.
Graffiti flashed past—"ECHO IS US" scrawled in red, dripping like fresh blood, "HER VOICE LIVES" in black, the letters jagged and uneven, as if carved in panic.
The mimics' buzz followed, a relentless chorus weaving their names—"Rin… Jisoo… Jihoon…"—layered with stolen voices, fragments of laughter, sobs, memories that weren't theirs anymore.
Rin's mind clung to Kyung—his twitchy muttering, his radio's crackle, the answers he carried about ECHO, about Hana. She clutched the toy recorder in her pocket, with Hana's voice, "Find me…," a lifeline she couldn't let go, even if it was a trap.
Her boots pounded the tracks, her torn arm burning. Jisoo's ragged breaths and Jihoon's gasping sobs were a rhythm beside her.
She led them toward the tunnel split where Kyung had vanished, her tough attitude fighting with a desperate need to know—why their voices, why their names.
The tracks curved sharply, opening to a maintenance room. Its steel door was ajar, and a faint crackle of static spilled from within, like a beacon.
The air inside was colder and heavier, thick with the sour smell of grease and decay. The walls were lined with rusted pipes that dripped condensation onto cracked tiles.
Kyung's bag lay abandoned in a corner, its contents spilled—tangled wires, cracked dials, a battered notebook scrawled with frantic notes: "VOICE NET," "TRAPPED SIGNALS," "HUB CONTROLS ALL."
Rin's heart raced, her hacker instincts flaring as she grabbed the notebook, her fingers smudging the ink. ECHO wasn't just a lab gone wrong; it was a network, voices weaponized, amplified, trapped in a system she'd once brushed against in her hacking days.
Jisoo scanned the room, her knife raised, her bloody arm trembling, fresh blood seeping from her shoulder, staining her apron darker.
"He's gone," she growled, her practical side tense with unease, her eyes flicking to the shadows.
Jihoon's stick trembled in his grip, his wide eyes darting to the door. His voice was barely a whisper—"What if he's one of them?" The question hung heavy, his fear mirroring Rin's own doubt. His tear-streaked face was pale under the room's single, flickering light bulb.
A radio on the floor hissed, its antenna bent, and Kyung's voice broke through—"They're listening… find the hub…"—before cutting into static, sharp and sudden, like a snapped wire.
Rin's breath caught, her mind racing—hub, network, control. She'd seen those terms in ECHO's code years ago, fragments of a project she'd dismissed as corporate hype, now clawing back into her life.
She tore a map from the notebook, its edges frayed, marked with a red circle: "HUB: OLD TOWER."
The humming sound surged, the room shaking, and dust fell from the ceiling. The mimics' buzz grew louder—"Rin… Jihoon…"—their voices weaving memories now, Hana's soft laugh, Jihoon's sister's pleading cry, a tapestry of stolen moments that tightened around Rin's chest.
Jisoo's jaw tightened, her knife gleaming as she stepped toward the door, her voice low. "We move, or we're dead."
Jihoon nodded, clutching his stick, his shoulders hunching as if to shield himself from the voices.
A mimic crawled through the door, its pale form hunched, its face flickering—not Hana's, not Jihoon's sister's, but Kyung's now. His angular features shimmered with unnatural clarity, and his eyes were clouded with recognition.
Jisoo slashed at it, her knife slicing its arm, and black blood sprayed, but it didn't lunge. It spoke—"Help me…"—in Kyung's voice, clear, not buzzing, a desperate plea that echoed his radio's crackle.
Rin froze, pipe raised, doubt gnawing at her tough exterior—was it a mimic, or had Kyung been taken, his voice trapped like Hana's?
Jihoon sobbed, his voice breaking—"It's not him!"—his stick swinging uselessly, his tears glinting in the dim light.
The Kyung-mimic stepped closer, its claws twitching but not raised. Its eyes shimmered with something that felt too human, too real.
Rin's fingers brushed the recorder, with Hana's voice, "Find me…," a ghost in her pocket, and her mind raced—mimics were evolving, pulling memories, voices, maybe more. The ECHO flyer, Kyung's riddles, her past—they were connected, and this mimic knew it.
Jisoo grabbed Jihoon, shoving him behind her, her knife poised, her voice a growl—"Rin, now!"
The humming sound roared louder, the room's light bulb flickering, plunging them into near-darkness, and the Kyung-mimic lunged, its claws gleaming, faster than before.
Rin swung her pipe, barely hitting its shoulder, her heart pounding as Jisoo slashed again, blood spraying, the mimic's buzz returning, layered with Kyung's plea—"Help…"
Another radio crackled from the dark, buried in Kyung's bag, its static slicing through the hum. Hana's voice screamed through it—"Rin, now!"—clear, urgent, not the recorder's loop but live, raw, as if she were here, watching.
Rin's blood ran cold, her pipe trembling. The Kyung-mimic's eyes locked on hers, its face shifting—Kyung's, then Hana's, then back, a flicker of accusation that tore at her guilt.
The hum shook the room, pipes groaning, and more buzzes echoed from the tunnel—"Jisoo… Jihoon…"—mimics closing in, their claws scraping closer.
Rin backed toward the door, pipe raised, Jisoo and Jihoon beside her, as the Kyung-mimic whispered, "You can't run…"—its voice a blend of Kyung's and Hana's, chillingly clear, pulling her into a trap she couldn't see.