The dark pressed in on all sides, thick and suffocating like a second skin.
Iyisha and Malcolm didn't move. Couldn't move.
Malcolm raised his gun and aimed it at the ceiling, just beneath where the trapdoor had sealed above them. His finger hovered near the trigger, breath locked in his chest, ready to fire at the first squeal of metal from above.
Above them, boots scraped across the collapsed structure, thudding against weakened wood and crumbling drywall.
Dust rained softly from the ceiling with every step, drifting in the faint shafts of light peeking through the fractured slats and shattered beams.
Iyisha crouched low and covered her mouth with both hands. Her breath came in fast bursts, too loud in her own ears. Each inhale seemed like it echoed.
Another set of footsteps approached, then stopped. Someone lingered just above them.
Iyisha's body tensed. Her fingers curled into fists against her knees. She pictured hands dragging them into the light. A boot stomping on her spine. A bullet. She imagined the Vulture's face pressed against a crack in the floor, peering down. Her heartbeat pounded in her throat, in her head.
But no voice came. No shouting. No shots. No sudden wrench of the metal trapdoor.
Only silence.
The Vultures hadn't found them. Not yet.
Time stretched unbearably. Every second dragged, suspended in stillness. Ten full minutes passed like an hour.
Then, finally, Malcolm moved.
With deliberate slowness, he unslung his backpack. The fabric whispered against the floor.
He reached inside, drew out a long, thin combat knife, and gently placed the pack in front of him like a makeshift shield.
He motioned to Iyisha, palm low. Stay close. Stay behind.
They couldn't see anything. The darkness below the trapdoor was complete—thick like tar, swallowing even the faintest outline of shapes. The air smelled stale, earthy, metallic, like a sealed basement untouched by time.
She pressed close to his back, body trembling, every muscle wired tight.
Malcolm raised the knife and tapped the stair with the butt.
Tap.
Silence.
Another tap.
Still no sound. No groaning. No scratching claws or dead shuffling feet.
He leaned close and whispered, "Could be safe. But we go slow."
They descended one step at a time. Each creak of the stair felt like a gunshot in the dark. Iyisha held her breath with every movement.
About five steps down, Malcolm's head knocked into something hanging low from the ceiling.
He flinched and let out a soft curse under his breath.
Iyisha recoiled automatically, almost stumbling backward.
He reached up, fingertips brushing cold metal. His fingers found a crank lantern hanging from the ceiling.
Malcolm gave it a slow twist. Once. Twice.
A faint flickering glow bloomed like a dying star. The crank lantern came to life, its soft light stretching across the room in trembling waves.
For the first time, they saw the space around them.
The shelter was intact. More than that—preserved.
The concrete walls held firm despite the collapse above. Rusted steel shelves lined the walls, each crowded with dusty supplies. Rows of canned food sat like forgotten relics.
Clear emergency jugs of water reflected the lantern light faintly. A red first aid kit rested near a cracked radio. A bundle of wool blankets had been stuffed into a plastic bin. A single metal cot sat bolted to the far wall.
Iyisha stared.
Her throat tightened. Her knees buckled as she slowly lowered herself to the floor. The relief that flooded her chest was sharp, overwhelming.
She almost cried.
Malcolm lowered his pack beside the cot. For the first time in what felt like days, his shoulders dropped. He exhaled through his nose and gave a short nod.
"We stay here for now," he said. "Doubt they'll find this. Roof caved in. They won't bother searching ruins this deep."
Iyisha nodded, eyes wide as they swept across the underground haven. "It's... it's all still good?"
He picked up a can and turned it over in his hand. "Depends how bad you need it."
They moved quickly, cataloging the supplies. Most of the canned food was still sealed. Some were bloated—bad. Others dented but likely safe. The water containers sloshed heavy and full.
The blankets were musty, but they felt warm when wrapped around the shoulders. The cot creaked but held weight.
"This radio might still work," Malcolm muttered, giving the hand crank a half-turn.
It made a faint click, but the speaker remained silent. Dead.
"We'll try again later. Right now, conserve power."
"Light stays off unless needed," he added.
Iyisha hugged a blanket around herself. Her hands were still shaking from earlier. "Do we take shifts?"
"Yeah. Two hours each. We need rest, but we stay alert."
He passed her one of the cleaner blankets and took position against the concrete wall, knife laid across his lap.
Iyisha settled opposite him, using her backpack as a pillow.
Somewhere far above, a board creaked.
Then silence again.
She closed her eyes for a moment and let herself breathe. Not fully relaxed but at least not running.
It wasn't safety.
But it was still.
A pause.
A breath.
Something like shelter.