The corridor sloped downward.
Barely at first—just enough to feel it in his calves, in the angle of his balance. But as he advanced, the incline became more obvious.
Gravity pulled differently now.
The walls narrowed slightly. The blue lights along the floor flickered once, then stabilized into a dim pulse.
He pressed onward.
The air was colder here. Not just from lack of circulation, but something deeper—older. Like it hadn't been touched in years. Maybe centuries.
Frost clung to the edges of a ventilation panel on the left. Crystals of ice forming jagged lines along its vents.
He ran a gloved hand across it. Tiny shards crumbled away.
The silence was deeper now. Not peaceful. Not empty.
Heavy.
Every sound he made—his breath, his steps, the shift of fabric—felt louder than it should've. Echoes crawled along the walls and vanished ahead.
He paused at a junction.
To the left, the corridor continued—downward still.
To the right: a sealed door. Intact. Closed tight. Faint marking above it, unreadable. Burned into the wall like a scar.
He stared at it for a moment.
Then turned left.
The descent would continue.
The slope deepened.
He kept a hand on the wall now, just to steady himself. The floor beneath his boots had shifted from smooth metal to something rougher—scored plating, worn from time or movement.
The lighting dimmed again. No more blue pulses. Just a faint glow, distant and weak, like the afterimage of a memory.
He slowed.
Up ahead, the corridor ended at another chamber. This one wider, colder. The doorway had no seal—just a collapsed frame, its edges bent inward like it had been forced open from the inside.
He stepped through.
The room was silent.
Low ceilings. Exposed beams. A dozen empty racks along the walls—storage units, maybe, or server mounts. Some had collapsed entirely, metal frames warped with age or heat.
Cables littered the floor like vines. Frozen in place. Brittle.
He moved carefully.
Then stopped.
Something had been dragged here.
A long trail ran across the dust-covered floor—something heavy. Rectangular. No footprints. No signs of struggle. Just the quiet smear of an object moved from one side of the room to the other.
He crouched, ran a gloved finger along the edge of the mark.
It was old. Undisturbed.
But it had been made by someone.
Or something.
He stood slowly, back tightening.
He was no longer sure which idea was worse.
He stood still for a long time.
Eyes fixed on the track across the floor. The absence of dust. The dragging mark.
His fingers clenched around the bar.
Maybe I should go back.
The thought came fast, uninvited.
Back up the slope. Back to the console room. The flickering node. The sealed wall with the glowing seam. Even the cryopod.
None of it was safe—but at least it wasn't this.
He glanced over his shoulder.
Darkness stretched behind him. Silent. Cold. No promise of light at the end.
He looked forward again.
Same thing.
A hallway full of dead machines, air like a tomb, and a dragging trail left by someone he couldn't name.
What difference would it make?
There was no exit. No map. No voice guiding him.
He didn't even know if there was a way out.
This place is a trap. Whether I go forward or back, I'm still inside.
He exhaled through his nose, shoulders tight.
Then kept walking.
Because in the end, it wasn't about choice. It never had been.
It was just direction.
And the only one left was forward.
The trail led toward the far wall.
It curved slightly, disappearing behind a collapsed pillar—one of the metal supports had buckled, bent inward like something heavy had crushed it from above.
He stepped around it.
There, tucked into the wall recess, was a large object—half-covered in dust and broken cabling. Rectangular. Dark. A dull matte surface with edges smoothed from time or wear.
Not a crate.
Not a body.
Some kind of pod.
He crouched beside it.
The front was split, slightly ajar. Not broken—just… opened. Carefully. Deliberately. Like something had exited, not forced its way out.
He reached out and brushed dust from the surface. His fingers found the same emblem again—triangle inside a circle. Etched into the metal like a signature.
This wasn't a cryopod. Not like the one he'd woken in.
No readouts. No control panels. No glass.
This was something else.
A transport case?
A containment shell?
Or something meant to carry… something.
He leaned closer, peering into the darkness through the split seam.
It was empty.
But he didn't feel reassured.
Something had been inside.
And it wasn't there anymore.
He stood there for a while.
Just watching the pod.
It didn't move. Didn't hum. Didn't pulse with light.
But something about it felt unfinished. Like a scene missing its final frame.
He stepped back from the shell and looked around the room again. No exit besides the one he came through. No access panels. No doors.
Just cables. Racks. And dust.
Lots of dust.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
There was nothing more here.
Or if there had been… it was gone now.
He turned back toward the hallway, bar still resting across his shoulder, one last glance over his shoulder.
And then—
A sound.
Faint. Subtle. Metallic.
Not close. Not even in the room.
But somewhere… down below.
A click.
A hiss.
And then silence again.
He froze, listening.
Nothing followed.
Still… it had been real.
He tightened his grip on the bar, gaze fixed on the corridor ahead.
If something had just woken up…
…it wasn't the only one.
He returned to the center of the room.
The pod still sat silently behind him, an empty shell.
No other doors. No hatches. No terminals. No way forward.
He crouched, pressed his palm against the floor. Cold metal met his skin, layered with centuries of dust.
Then, slowly, he lowered his ear to it.
Silence.
He held his breath.
Still nothing.
Then—a faint tremor. Subtle. Distant.
Like something breathing two levels below.
He sat up and exhaled.
"Fuck…"
No time to guess. If there was a way down, he'd have to find it himself.
He stood and tapped the floor with the tip of his metal bar.
One step. Then another. Listening.
Clink. Clink. Thud.
He paused.
That one was duller.
He tapped again. Then again. Moving in a grid-like pattern.
Thud.
Hollow.
He knelt quickly and ran his hand along the seam where two panels met. The edge was barely visible—just a hairline gap. But it was there.
Not a hatch.
A door.
Hidden flush into the wall.
He brushed away the dust, revealing a recessed indent—flat, matte-black.
No handle.
He slid the bar's tip into the seam and levered.
Nothing.
He shifted, tried again—this time with pressure and angle.
A sharp click.
The panel snapped open with a jolt, then slid back slightly into the wall with a hiss of ancient hydraulics.
Behind it: darkness.
A narrow passage.
Unlit.
Descending.
He stared into the passage for a few seconds, letting his eyes adjust.
No lights. No indicators. No markings on the walls.
Just blackness—and a soft draft of cold air rising up from below, dry and thin, like the breath of something sleeping.
He swallowed.
Then stepped inside.
The narrow corridor swallowed him within three paces. The entrance sealed behind him with a dull thump—automatic, maybe. Or just gravity.
He didn't try to open it again.
The walls brushed close to his shoulders. The ceiling dropped just above his head. It felt more like a maintenance shaft than a hallway—meant for short trips, or for people who didn't mind crawling.
The floor sloped downward again, steeper this time.
He moved slowly, one hand against the wall, the other still gripping the metal bar.
There was no sound here. No hum. No flickering light.
Just his own breath echoing back against the narrow space.
After ten meters, the passage curved slightly—then widened.
The shift was subtle, but immediate. The air changed again—more metallic. Sharper.
He stepped forward and found himself in a chamber no larger than a freight elevator. Smooth walls. Reinforced joints.
A square hatch in the floor.
No visible control panel.
He crouched beside it. Brushed his hand across the surface.
No dust.
Which meant it had been used.
Recently.
He looked down at the outline.
Then tapped the edge with the bar.
The hatch answered with a hollow clang.
Another level waited.
And he was already halfway there.
He gripped the bar in both hands and wedged it into the narrow seam of the floor hatch.
No panel. No release. No instructions.
Just metal.
He leaned into it, forcing pressure down.
Nothing.
He adjusted the angle. Braced his foot against the hatch edge. Pressed harder.
A sharp creak echoed down the shaft.
He froze.
Waited.
No alarm. No response. Just silence.
He pushed again.
Another groan of metal. Then—crack.
The edge of the hatch gave way, rising half an inch with a loud pop as ancient pressure seals disengaged.
Dust burst out in a thin, dry cloud.
He coughed, waved it away, then lifted the hatch fully open.
It was heavier than it looked—thick plating, reinforced frame. The kind of material made to keep things in.
Not out.
He looked down.
A ladder descended into darkness.
He couldn't see the bottom.
Just cold air rising in slow, steady breaths.
He exhaled, knelt, and tested the first rung with his boot.
Solid.
He gripped the sides and began to climb down.
One step.
Then another.
The hatch closed behind him with a deep, echoing clang.
The ladder stretched farther than he expected.
Ten rungs.
Twenty.
Thirty.
The darkness felt thicker the deeper he went, as if the air itself had weight.
He paused halfway down, shifting his grip. His gloves slid against the cold metal.
Still no sign of a bottom.
Just the walls surrounding him—no wider than a shaft—and the distant sound of his own breath, bouncing upward like an echo in a bottle.
He kept climbing.
At last, his boot touched something solid.
A floor.
He exhaled in relief and stepped down.
The room around him was pitch black—no lights, no panels, no glow strips. Just the faint shape of bulkheads and pipes, barely outlined by the dimness leaking from the shaft above.
He waited.
Eyes adjusting.
Then—a sound.
A low, hollow chime.
One tone. Isolated.
It didn't come from nearby. Not behind him. Not even above.
It came from within the walls.
He turned slowly, trying to locate it.
Nothing repeated.
But it had been real. Just like the others.
And it had only rung once.
He narrowed his eyes.
Not a warning.
A signal.