The glow pulsed faintly, casting long, soft shadows that crawled across the walls like restless ghosts.
I crouched, breathing hard, eyes locked on the scarf. It was Lena's—same black fabric, same frayed edge—but the faint blue light that seeped from its threads made my skin prickle.
The clang of metal echoed somewhere behind me. The creature was still hunting.
I reached for the scarf, but stopped inches short. The glow wasn't steady—it was breathing.
Footsteps—no, claws—scraped closer. My hand closed around the scarf.
The moment my fingers brushed it, a shock of cold shot up my arm. The glow brightened, flooding the dark with pale blue light. The shadows it cast warped unnaturally, stretching away from me like something was pulling them.
The hissing started again. Louder this time.
I spun toward the doorway. The thing stood there, hunched low, its talons scraping the floor, its head cocked at a sharp, unnatural angle. The light from the scarf hit its skin, and the surface rippled like oil disturbed by wind.
Its screech ripped through the air, and then it lunged.
I dove sideways, the creature's talons raking sparks across the wall where my head had been. The scarf slipped from my grasp, hitting the floor with a metallic ping.
Metallic?
No time to think. The creature's tail lashed, shattering a pipe. Steam burst into the air, clouding the room.
I snatched the scarf again and ran. The narrow hallway ahead twisted sharply, the floor grating rattling under my boots. Behind me, claws hammered the metal in an irregular rhythm—fast, then slow, then fast again—like it was playing with me.
The scarf's glow began to pulse faster, the light leaking through gaps in the walls. Ahead, one section of the wall shimmered faintly, like heat above asphalt.
It looked wrong.
The pounding steps closed in. I didn't think—I slammed my shoulder into the shimmer. The surface rippled, and I fell through.
I landed in a cramped shaft, the air heavy with dust and mold. The glow from the scarf dimmed again, as if it had completed its job.
The wall behind me solidified, trapping the creature on the other side. It slammed into it hard enough to make the metal shudder. I stumbled back, clutching the scarf.
That door—if it was a door—hadn't been there before. And it had opened exactly when I'd needed it.
Exactly like the first time Lena saved me.
I held the scarf closer, turning it over. The threads weren't glowing anymore, but faint lines—symbols—were burned into the fabric. Twisting, looping shapes that seemed to shift when I wasn't looking directly at them.
Not random. Not decorative.
A noise above made me look up. A vent cover dangled loosely, swaying as if someone had just climbed through.
I swallowed hard.
The pounding on the wall stopped. The silence that followed was worse.
Something about this place felt intentional, like I was being moved from one space to another—not rescued, not lost, but placed.
The vent creaked again. Dust fell.
I slid the scarf into my belt, pulled the knife from its sheath, and started climbing the rusted rungs bolted into the shaft wall. My boots scraped against the metal, every sound far too loud in the dead air.
Halfway up, the rungs grew slick with something wet. My stomach turned as I realized the moisture wasn't water—it was warm.
The vent above swung wider. A draft swept down, carrying with it a faint scent I recognized instantly—Lena's perfume.
She'd been here.
I hauled myself up and through the vent, landing in a narrow maintenance tunnel. My breathing sounded ragged in the close air. The scarf's glow was gone, but its weight at my hip felt heavier than before.
Somewhere far down the tunnel, a faint scraping echoed. Not claws this time. Something slower. Dragging.
The air grew colder as I moved forward, crouched low. The scraping sound didn't get closer or farther—it stayed exactly the same distance away, no matter how far I walked.
I stopped, heart thudding.
From the darkness ahead, a voice whispered—not Lena's this time, but something deeper, distorted.
"Keep going."
Every instinct told me to turn back. But the pounding on the wall earlier, the vent, the glow of the scarf—none of it had been coincidence.
Someone was guiding me.
Or herding me.
The tunnel sloped downward, the floor slick under my boots. The scraping sound grew sharper, clearer.
I turned the last corner—and froze.
At the end of the tunnel, illuminated by a single hanging lightbulb, was a door.
Not a rusted metal hatch. Not a warped bulkhead.
A perfectly ordinary wooden door, painted deep red.
And hanging from the doorknob… was Lena's other scarf.