I kept walking.
The tunnel stretched endlessly, my breath coming slow, shallow. Every step sent fresh aches through my body, a dull throb in my ribs, my legs, the burning pulse of phantom pain in my missing arm. The exhaustion clung to me like a second skin.
I had killed four more rats on the way. Drank from them. Smeared their remains into my clothes, my skin, rubbing the sticky filth into my arms and neck like a grotesque second layer. The stench of old blood had settled into my hair, into every inch of me, a mix of iron, sweat, and something worse.
I was a walking corpse.
And it had worked.
The rats had lost interest. They barely even glanced at me anymore before scurrying away. It was the only thing keeping me safe.
But now, standing at the edge of the tunnel, looking out onto the platform ahead—
I realized how badly I reeked.
If the rats could smell me, so could humans.
And if anyone came looking, I wouldn't just be an intruder. I'd be trackable.
