The footsteps grew louder, closer, echoing unnervingly in the confined space, amplified by the constant rush of unseen water nearby. They weren't the measured pace of someone exploring—they were frantic, splashing heedlessly through puddles, punctuated by harsh, ragged gasps for breath. The rhythm spoke of blind panic, of someone running not just for urgency, but for survival. This wasn't the sound of a hunter, but of the hunted.
Rhys reacted instantly, his prior stillness exploding into silent, efficient motion. A hand signal – flat palm, downward motion – commanded me to stay low, stay hidden. His fingers splayed then closed into a fist—a gesture I somehow intuitively understood as a warning to remain absolutely silent. He melted backwards slightly, pressing himself into a deeper shadow where a cluster of thick pipes met the wall, his posture alert, ready. The narrow red beam from his device extinguished with a soft click between his thumb and forefinger, plunging us back into near-total darkness, broken only by the faintest residual glow filtering from the junction far behind us.
I flattened myself against the slimy brickwork near the rubble pile where I'd found Eleanor's cosmetic tube, my heart hammering against my ribs. The cold, wet surface seeped through my clothes, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. Moss or some kind of fungus yielded beneath my fingertips, soft and unpleasantly organic. Every nerve ending felt raw, exposed, my senses heightened to painful acuity. I strained my ears, trying to filter the desperate splashing and panting from the background roar of water. Who was it? Why were they running with such life-or-death urgency in this forgotten place?
A figure stumbled into the periphery of my limited vision – a dark shape against the deeper blackness, moving erratically. The rhythm of their gait was broken, uneven. They seemed to be favoring one leg, lurching heavily to compensate for the injury. A choked sob escaped them, quickly stifled by what sounded like a hand pressed against mouth. Definitely human. Definitely terrified.
Closer now. I could make out a silhouette – smaller than Rhys, slender build, possibly female, though it was hard to tell in the oppressive darkness. They were clutching something to their chest with both arms, as if it were precious beyond measure. Their breathing was a painful tearing sound in the darkness—shallow, rapid inhalations followed by trembling exhales that spoke of exhaustion pushed to its limits.
Suddenly, the figure's injured leg seemed to give way beneath them. They cried out, a thin sound of pain and surprise that bounced off the tunnel walls, and tumbled forward. The splash of their landing echoed loudly as they hit a shallow puddle just a few feet from where Rhys was concealed. The object they were carrying skittered across the wet floor with a soft scraping sound, landing near my feet with a dull thud.
Rhys didn't move immediately, a statue carved from shadow. His controlled breathing was imperceptible; only the slight tensing of his shoulders betrayed his heightened alertness. I remained frozen, barely breathing, caught between the urge to shrink further into the wall and the instinct to see what the fallen object was. My fingers dug into the crumbling mortar between bricks, anchoring me in place against my dueling impulses.
The figure on the floor moaned, trying to push themselves up, their movements weak and uncoordinated. Water dripped from their clothes with each desperate attempt to rise. "No... please... not there..." they whimpered, the words choked with exhaustion and terror, voice cracking on the final syllable.
Rhys finally moved. Not towards the fallen figure, but stepping silently out from the pipes, his feet finding dry spots with preternatural precision. He positioned himself between the fallen figure and the direction they had come from, his attention clearly focused down the tunnel, head tilted slightly, listening for pursuit. His right hand hovered near his hip, where I suspected a weapon was concealed.
My eyes darted down to the object near my foot. It was a small, worn leather pouch, tied shut with a frayed drawstring. The leather was dark with age and use, smooth in some places from constant handling. It felt... oddly heavy for its size when I cautiously shifted my foot to touch it. And emanating from it, even through the leather, I sensed a faint, contained pulse of energy—like a heartbeat, but not quite organic. Not the chaotic residue of Eleanor's ritual, nor the cold hunger of the tunnel creature, but something... different. Focused. Almost alive, with intention behind its pulse.
Supernatural artifact? Was that what the Crimson Tear scavengers were after? Was that why this person was being hunted? The questions crowded my mind even as instinct warned me to stay still, stay silent.
The figure on the floor coughed, a wet, rattling sound that spoke of injury beyond the obvious limping. A small splatter of something darker than water hit the ground beside them. "Help... me..." they pleaded weakly towards the darkness where Rhys stood, perhaps sensing his presence despite the concealing shadows. Their fingers clawed at the wet stone, seeking purchase, seeking salvation.
Rhys remained silent, his posture rigid, still listening. The muscles in his jaw worked slightly—the only indication of internal conflict. He wasn't going to reveal himself, not yet. The calculation was cold, pragmatic. An unknown, injured individual could be bait. Helping them could compromise his own position, attract unwanted attention. I could almost see the risk assessment running through his mind, weighing variables I couldn't begin to understand.
My own instincts screamed caution. This wasn't my fight. I had my own impossible mission, my own enemies. Getting involved was madness. Eleanor's pendant pressed against my chest beneath my shirt, a constant reminder of why I was here, what I had to accomplish.
Yet... the sheer desperation in that voice, the raw terror... it resonated with my own recent experience, with the feeling of being hunted, trapped, utterly alone in an alien world. And the pouch... that faint energy signature tugged at something within me, a nascent curiosity intertwined with the power Eleanor had left behind. It called to me, whispering promises of answers, of connection.
Before I could fully process the conflicting urges, a new sound reached us from the direction the figure had fled – multiple sets of splashing footsteps, heavier this time, more purposeful. Not frantic. Determined. Measured. Hunting footsteps.
Rhys cursed under his breath, a sharp hiss between clenched teeth. "Company," he breathed, confirming my fear. He finally glanced towards the fallen figure, then flicked the red beam of his light on for a fraction of a second, illuminating them.
It was a young woman, perhaps early twenties. Her clothes—what looked like once-neat dark jeans and a burgundy sweater—were torn and soaked, clinging to her trembling form. Her face was streaked with grime and what looked like blood from a gash on her forehead that disappeared into her matted blonde hair. Her eyes were wide with terror, fixed on the darkness down the tunnel behind her, pupils dilated to their limits. She clutched her side, where another dark stain was spreading, glistening wetly in the momentary light. Badly wounded, probably losing blood rapidly.
The red light also briefly caught the leather pouch near my feet. Rhys's eyes narrowed slightly as he registered it, something like recognition flashing across his features, then flicked back to the approaching sounds.
"No time," he muttered, seemingly making a decision. He bent down swiftly, not offering help, but grabbing the woman roughly by the arm. "Get up! Move! Side passage – now!" He started hauling her towards the narrow opening where I still lurked near the collapsed rubble.
The woman cried out again in pain but scrambled to her feet, propelled by Rhys's urgency and her own terror. Her breathing came in sharp, pained gasps, fog forming with each exhale in the cold, damp air.
They were coming right towards me. There was no room to hide further back. I pressed myself flat against the wall, holding the small Blackwood crest hard in one hand, the metal edges digging into my palm, the other hovering near the mysterious pouch. My pulse thundered in my ears, almost drowning out the splash of their approaching steps.
As Rhys half-dragged, half-pushed the injured woman towards the alcove where I had hidden earlier (had he deemed it safer than continuing forward?), her wide, terrified eyes met mine in the almost nonexistent light. Recognition flickered there, mingled with confusion and fear. Her lips parted slightly in shock.
"You...?" she gasped, her voice barely a whisper, a thread of sound nearly lost in the ambient noise of dripping water and approaching footsteps. "Vance? What are you doing down here?"
She knew Eleanor. The realization hit me like a physical blow. A connection, a thread to grasp when everything else was chaos.
The approaching footsteps were closer now, just around the bend. I could hear guttural commands being shouted in a language I didn't recognize, harsh and menacing. The consonants were sharp, the cadence aggressive—the voice of authority expecting immediate compliance.
Rhys shoved the woman more forcefully towards the alcove opening. "In! Now! Stay quiet!" His voice was low but carried absolute command. He glanced back at me, his expression unreadable in the deep shadow, though his eyes reflected the faintest hint of light like a predator's. "You too. Unless you want to explain yourself to the Tear."
He knew who was coming. The Crimson Tear. The name sent a chill through me, colder than the damp tunnel air.
There was no choice. I grabbed the leather pouch from the floor – acting purely on instinct, on that strange energy pull – and scrambled into the narrow alcove after the injured woman, pulling myself into the cramped space. The walls pressed in from both sides, claustrophobic, unyielding stone. Just as Rhys slid in behind us, positioning himself near the opening, I heard the soft metallic click of what could only be a weapon being readied.
We were crammed together in the suffocating darkness – me, the injured woman who somehow knew Eleanor Vance, and the enigmatic 'monitor' Rhys. The woman's ragged breathing was hot against my neck, her trembling body pressed against mine by necessity in the tight space. Outside, the heavy footsteps and harsh voices grew louder, stopping right at the entrance to our side passage.
A beam of harsh white light suddenly sliced through the opening, sweeping across the damp walls, narrowly missing us by inches. My heart leaped into my throat. I held my breath, pressing myself deeper into the shadows, one hand instinctively moving to steady the wounded woman who swayed dangerously beside me.
"Hrngg?" A questioning grunt from one of the pursuers outside. Heavy boots splashed in the puddles, pausing just beyond our hiding place.
Silence. Waiting. Listening. The moment stretched like an overwound clock spring, ready to snap.
The injured woman beside me was trembling violently, stifling whimpers of pain and fear against what felt like her own sleeve pressed to her mouth. I could smell her blood now, sharp and metallic, mingling with the ever-present damp earth and salt. The pouch in my hand pulsed faintly, a warm, rhythmic beat against my skin that seemed to synchronize with my racing heartbeat, as if responding to my fear.
Trapped. Again. But this time, not alone. And perhaps, that was even more dangerous.