Silas heard a sound—like steam leaking from the pipes, coming from the right door. He trudged toward it, and after a moment's hesitation, pulled open the metal frame.
The basement was small and dim, smelling faintly of oil, dust, and old iron. Pipes ran across the walls like veins—thick brass tubes layered over thinner copper ones, hissing with steam that leaked through loose joints deeper within.
Two lamps dangled from the ceiling by a frayed wire, their glow flickering behind stained glass shades.
Turning to the right of the stairs he spotted a large metal valve jutting from the wall made of iron and rusted at the edges, with a brass handle crudely welded to its face. Silas gripped it with both hands and gave it a turn. It let out a sharp groaned, then released a sharp hiss as the steam valves overhead began to quiet.
Just beside it, fixed to the wall, was an old switch—thick copper wiring fed into its base and along the lever's length. He flipped it down. With a heavy clunk, the overhead lamps and his room lights sputtered to life, casting a faint yellow glow. It wasn't bright, but it was enough to see everything clearly.
Silas walked further into the basement. The floor was cluttered with rusted tools, spare gear parts, and scraps of parchment.
A small open door came into view after a moment. 'Should I go in?' Silas swallowed a lump of saliva at the thought, then crouched down and decided to check it out.
As he fully entered the room, the stench of something rotten and wet slammed into his nose. The room was damp, its walls slick with condensation. From a rusted pipe overhead, water dripped in slow, rhythmic taps, pooling across the cracked concrete floor. The air was warmer here, thick and stale from the lack of any openings. A single lamp flickered in the far right corner, its weak yellow glow barely holding on.
Just a few steps ahead, a tall rectangular box stood near the lamp. The box was a dull gray, its surface scratched where rust hadn't yet eaten through. A small latch hung crooked, stained with a smear of dried crimson.
Silas exhaled slowly and crept toward it. He hesitated for a second, his fingers twitching as they hovered above the latch. The stench was already leaking through the cracks, thick and sour, like something rotting.
Click.
The latch gave way with a soft snap, and the door creaked open by a few inches. A gust of foul, rotting air hit him like a wall. Silas gagged, stumbling back a step. The inside was too dark to see clearly.
He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, then, slowly, reached forward and pulled the door open wider.
Silas blinked a few times, adjusting to the darkness inside. At first, there was only a vague shape—a dark silhouette slumped, leaning awkwardly against the back wall of the box.
The stench was unbearable.
He squinted, eyes narrowing as they landed on a pale, discolored hand drooping out. The fingers were shriveled, the skin wrinkled and rotting. The light didn't quite catch it, but he could make out the outline of a shoulder, and an arm bent at an unnatural angle.
"This!" Silas's eyes wide opened at what he saw!
A corpse lay inside, It wore an old, scuffed dark green shirt, soaked in dried black blood. The ribs were split open, sharp white shards jutting from a hollowed chest cavity. Limbs sprawling from the broken angles. The man's skull had a small hole in the front—like a bullet wound—black, rotting brain matter oozing from the cracked bone.
Tah! Tah! Tah! Tah!
Something clicked in his head. Silas instinctively reeled back. A chill raced down his spine, as he immediately fought the urge to puke.
"A corpse! F**k this can't be!"
He turned toward the corpse again, still in disbelief at what he was looking at. If not for the throbbing pain in his head, the nauseating stench of rotting flesh, and the sight of insects feasting on the body, he might had thought he was just hallucinating.
Silas let out a deep breath, trying to calm his racing thoughts.
"Did Leon kill him? Why is there a corpse in a box?" Gathering all the will he had, he stepped closer again.
The same memory he had seen while holding the revolver crossed his mind. It was vague and distorted, he couldn't tell if the man in the vision was the same as the one lying before him.
"Calm down."
He pressed a palm tightly against his chest. His heartbeat was so loud it echoed in the silence of the room.
Then, with a loud thud, he slammed the box shut and sat down on the damp floor for a minute. Everything he had encountered so far pointed to one thing—this was not a safe place.
After a few minutes of reflection, Silas decided to check on the corpse further. He slowly opened the box door again and began studying the body for any possible clue.
The right wrist of the corpse had a date inked into the skin—October 14, dark and faded. Hanging from the neck was a silver necklace with a small cross dangling at the end. Insects crawled lazily over the flesh, squishy and bloated, each with two long, pointed pincers sprouting from their heads. But what truly caught Silas's attention was a larger insect curling restlessly inside the hollow cavity of the abdomen. It twitched and shifted as it ate the fresh.
Silas swallowed dryly. "This date... I've seen it before. I'm sure of it."
From the right pocket of the corpse's trousers, the edge of a browned paper stuck out, just barely visible. Silas shook his head, closed his eyes, and quickly pulled the paper free.
The stench hit him with full force, he dropped to his knees and threw up—violently, everything he had left inside him. He stayed there for a few seconds, heaving, then finally pushed himself up with shaking arms and stumbled away, collapsing against the wall, far from both the corpse and his own bile.
Silas glared at the paper written in red ink, the letters were messy and uneven. It listed a location and a code.
(If this gets out, we're all dead.
The access hatch behind the second building, right wall marked with rust.
Passcode: 714C.
He would be there.)
Silas clenched the note. "A place, perhaps?"
Silas stood up abruptly. Giving one final glance at the corpse, he turned and left the room, footsteps echoing down the damp corridor as he made his way back to his own.
The cold air hit him the moment he stepped inside, seeping into his skin like icy fingers. His eyes flicked to the pocket watch still lying on the table. Silas slowly picked it up, brow furrowing as he studied its face. The hands had stopped moving counterclockwise but the Roman numeral at the top remained the same: XIII.
He let out a deep sigh, dragging a hand through his hair. "Maybe this world has thirteen hours in a clock?"
Leaning slightly out the window, he took in the cityscape. The old stone building across from his was blanketed in snow, its outer walls laced with thick pipes that coiled like arteries. Flickering amber lights glowed behind stained glass panels, casting a warm haze onto the narrow alley below. Between the four tightly packed buildings, a narrow road carved through the snow. People walked in neat lines, coats and caps shielding them from the cold, each of them moving with mechanical precision like an ant colony.
Silas's gaze drifted lazily over the street then paused. Near the metal pole on the opposite corner, a figure stood completely still, as if it had been there for a while. He wasn't sure at first, but something about it felt off, like it was staring at him.
"Do I know him?"