Pressed together in the suffocating confines of the stone alcove, the darkness felt absolute, broken only by the harsh white beam occasionally slicing across the narrow opening from the passage outside. Each sweep sent fresh waves of adrenaline through me, plastering me harder against the cold metal wall at my back, its surface pitted with decades of corrosion that bit into my shoulder blades. The smell of rust and mineral deposits filled my nostrils, mingling with the copper tang of blood and the sour scent of fear. Beside me, the injured young woman trembled uncontrollably, her shallow, painful breaths loud in the silence, each inhalation a labored wheeze followed by a barely suppressed whimper on the exhale. Rhys, positioned nearest the opening, was utterly still, a predator coiled in waiting, only the occasional blink betraying his humanity.
The guttural voices outside continued their exchange in that unknown, harsh language—all sharp consonants and abrupt endings. They sounded agitated, arguing perhaps? One voice rose above the others, deeper, more authoritative, cutting through the others with what could only be commands. Then, heavy footsteps moved closer to our hiding spot, each deliberate step sending tiny vibrations through the stone beneath my feet. My heart leaped into my throat, its frantic rhythm pounding in my ears. I could hear the crunch of their boots on the gritty floor, the clink of unseen gear and weapons shifting with each movement.
The white beam fixed directly on the alcove opening, flooding the narrow entrance with blinding light that cast long, distorted shadows into our hiding place. I squeezed my eyes shut instinctively, pressing back further against the wall as if I could somehow melt into it, expecting discovery, a rough hand grabbing me, dragging me out…
Instead, I heard a low grunt, then one of the voices barked a sharp command—three syllables spat out like stones. The beam moved away, sweeping further down the side passage, then back towards the main junction. More guttural discussion followed, sounding frustrated now, words exchanged in rapid-fire bursts punctuated by what could only be curses.
Were they giving up? Had the darkness and the cramped nature of the alcove convinced them it was empty, or not worth investigating further? I hardly dared to hope, yet the light's retreat suggested precisely that.
The injured woman beside me let out a tiny, choked whimper, her fingers digging weakly into my arm as another wave of pain wracked her body. A droplet of sweat or blood—I couldn't tell which in the darkness—slid down her temple, tracing the curve of her jaw before disappearing into the collar of her ruined sweater. Rhys shifted almost imperceptibly, and I felt, rather than saw, him place a warning hand lightly on her shoulder, his touch conveying a message clearer than words: silence or death. Silence fell again, thick and expectant, broken only by the distant drip of water marking seconds like a metronome.
Then, the footsteps began to recede. Moving back towards the junction, then splitting off—some heading back the way we came (towards the sealed door? Towards the penthouse?), others heading down one of the other dark tunnels. The clink of metal against stone, the splash of boots through shallow puddles, all gradually fading. They weren't leaving entirely, perhaps, but they were no longer focused on our immediate location.
Only when the last echo of their heavy treads faded into the ambient sounds of the tunnel system did Rhys allow himself a slow, almost silent exhale, his chest barely moving with the controlled release of tension. The atmosphere in the small space eased fractionally, though the underlying danger remained a palpable weight, hanging over us like an invisible fog.
"Clear," Rhys breathed, the single word barely audible, little more than a shaped exhalation. His jaw unclenched slightly, the muscles of his face relaxing from absolute stillness to mere vigilance. He didn't immediately reactivate his red light, perhaps wary of unseen watchers or residual patrols, his eyes scanning the darkness beyond our hiding place with practiced efficiency.
The injured woman sagged against the wall, relief making her tremble even more, her face glistening with a sheen of cold sweat that caught what little ambient light filtered into our alcove. "Gone?" she whispered, her voice hoarse, cracking on the single syllable. "Are they gone?" Her fingers twisted the sodden fabric of her sweater, revealing glimpses of the wound beneath—a deep, ragged gash that continued to seep blood.
"For now," Rhys replied curtly, each word precisely measured. He finally risked the dim red light again, a subtle flick of his thumb activating the narrow beam, illuminating our cramped prison and casting our faces in stark relief—all harsh angles and deep shadows. He immediately focused on the woman, his eyes clinically assessing her condition, lingering on the wound at her side. "You know Vance?" he asked, his tone neutral but sharp, cutting straight to the point her earlier gasp had revealed.
The woman flinched under his direct gaze, her fear shifting from the departed pursuers to the enigmatic man beside her. Her pupils contracted in the sudden light, revealing irises of pale green ringed with amber. "I… yes," she stammered, clutching her bleeding side, wincing as her fingers pressed against torn flesh. "Eleanor Vance. We… we worked together sometimes. On… certain projects." Her eyes flickered towards me, wide with confusion and a dawning, terrified question she didn't dare voice. You look like her, but you're not her.
I met her gaze, keeping my expression carefully blank, offering neither confirmation nor denial. A muscle in my jaw twitched involuntarily, the only betrayal of the tension coiled within me. Playing the part of the amnesiac, shell-shocked Eleanor seemed the safest course for now, though how long I could maintain it under scrutiny was uncertain. The weight of the leather pouch in my hand seemed to grow heavier, its strange energy pulsing in time with my accelerated heartbeat.
"Projects?" Rhys pressed, ignoring me for the moment, his focus entirely on her. His hand moved slightly closer to the concealed weapon at his hip, a subtle shift that spoke volumes. "What kind of projects involve the Crimson Tear hunting you through forgotten city tunnels?" The question hung in the air, each word precise and weighted.
"They… they want this," the woman gasped, her hand weakly indicating the leather pouch I still held clutched tightly in my own. Blood had dried in the creases of her knuckles, dark against her pale skin. The faint pulsing energy within the pouch seemed to respond to her gesture, warming slightly against my skin, like an ember stirred by a breath. "We… acquired it. Something they coveted. Something… powerful." Her breath hitched on the last word, pain flickering across her features.
"Acquired it from whom?" Rhys's voice was relentless, each syllable falling like a hammer on steel. His eyes never left her face, reading every twitch, every hesitation.
"Blackwood," she choked out the name, the syllables sharp with fear, followed by a fit of painful coughing that left her gasping, doubled over, one arm braced against the damp wall for support. Flecks of red appeared on her lips, glistening in the dim crimson light. "Stole it. From one of their… hidden vaults. Eleanor planned it. Said it was key… key to the resonance… for the severance…" Her words dissolved into pained murmurs, her eyelids fluttering as consciousness threatened to slip away.
My mind seized on the confirmation, pieces clicking into place with almost audible clarity. Stolen from Blackwood. Key to resonance and severance. This pouch, whatever it contained, was directly linked to Eleanor's ritual, to Julian's 'containment', and likely to my own presence here. And the Crimson Tear wanted it badly enough to hunt her down like an animal through these forgotten depths. The implications sent an electric thrill of discovery through me, even as dread coiled beneath it.
"What's in the pouch?" I asked, my voice low and steady, cutting through her pained gasps. This was crucial. I leaned forward slightly, the movement causing water to drip from my hair onto the stone floor with a soft patter.
She looked at me, her eyes clouded with pain and delirium, struggling to focus. A tremor ran through her body, not just from fear or cold, but from something deeper—the beginnings of shock. "Don't know… sealed. Heavy. Feels… warm. Alive, almost. Eleanor said… only she could open it… attuned to her bloodline… or the ritual's energy…" She trailed off, her eyelids fluttering, head lolling forward slightly before she caught herself with a jarring motion.
Attuned to Eleanor's bloodline. Or the ritual's energy. My energy? The chaotic power thrumming beneath my skin, singing in my veins since the moment I'd awakened in Eleanor's body? Could I open it? The thought sent a jolt through me, a mixture of excitement and trepidation, like standing on the edge of a precipice and feeling both the terror of the fall and the exhilarating possibility of flight.
Rhys shifted his attention back to me, his expression unreadable in the dim red glow, though his eyes had narrowed slightly, calculating. "So," he said softly, dangerously, each word measured and precise as a surgeon's cut. "You're Eleanor Vance. The one who stole from Blackwood, performed a ritual that likely attracted every nasty thing in these tunnels, and got this poor girl nearly killed." It wasn't a question. It was an accusation, weighted with unspoken judgment, a trap skillfully laid.
"I… I don't remember," I whispered, forcing a tremor into my voice, clinging to the amnesia defense like a lifeline. I dropped my gaze, staring at the dark water pooling around our feet, watching tiny ripples form with each drip from above. "Everything… after the penthouse… it's a blank. That man… the ritual… I don't know what happened." It was a weak lie, but the only one I had, a fragile shield against his penetrating scrutiny.
Rhys studied me for a long moment, his silence unnerving, filled with the weight of assessment. The red light cast half his face in blood-hued illumination, leaving the other in shadow—a perfect visual metaphor for the duality of his apparent purpose. I could feel him weighing my words, searching for tells, the micro-expressions that would betray me. Did he believe me? Or did he see the ancient soul hiding behind Eleanor's borrowed eyes?
"Convenient," he finally said, his voice devoid of inflection, neither accepting nor rejecting my claim. He looked back at the injured woman, who seemed to be fading fast, her breathing growing shallower, her skin taking on a waxy pallor even in the red light. "She needs medical attention. Real attention. Not whatever back-alley stitch-up might be available down here." His words were clipped, pragmatic, but not entirely void of concern.
He was right. Even I could see she wouldn't last long without proper care. The spreading stain at her side had stopped growing, but that wasn't good news—it likely meant she was running out of blood to lose. But getting her out? Through tunnels potentially still patrolled by the Tear or the creature? To where? We were fugitives ourselves, hunted by forces we barely understood.
"We can't just leave her," I stated, surprised by the conviction in my own voice. It wasn't just strategy; leaving her felt… wrong. A betrayal of some code buried deeper than even my thirst for vengeance. The admission unsettled me—this unwanted empathy for a stranger, this humanity I hadn't asked for.
Rhys looked at me again, a flicker of surprise in his shadowy features, quickly masked. "Carrying her will slow us down. Make us an easy target." His fingers tapped once against his thigh, a barely perceptible tell of internal calculation.
"Leaving her guarantees she dies," I countered, my voice stronger now, emboldened by certainty. "And maybe she knows more. More about this pouch, about the ritual, about him." I nodded towards the sealed door we'd left behind, where Julian remained imprisoned. Or so I hoped.
It was another gamble. Appealing to his pragmatism—information—while masking my own sliver of unwanted empathy. I held his gaze steadily, refusing to look away first in this silent battle of wills.
He considered it, his gaze drifting from the fading woman to the pouch in my hand, then back to me. The air crackled with unspoken negotiation, with calculations of risk and benefit, trust and suspicion.
"Alright," he said at last, making a swift decision, the word crisp and final. "But you carry the liability." He gestured towards the woman, whose head had now slumped forward, consciousness clearly slipping away. "And I carry the prize." His eyes fixed pointedly on the leather pouch I held, his meaning unmistakable.
The demand was stark. He wanted the artifact, the potential key, the source of all this immediate trouble, in exchange for helping the woman. It was a test. A power play. A forced declaration of priorities.
My fingers tightened instinctively around the pouch, feeling its surface warm beneath my grip. Its faint warmth felt like a living thing now, pulsing against my skin in rhythm with my own heartbeat. Giving it up felt like surrendering my only potential advantage, my only clue. But the woman…
Behind us, from the direction of the main passage, came a faint sound that made the hairs on my neck stand rigid. A low, dragging scrape, followed by a soft, wet sound like something viscous moving across stone.
The creature. It was still out there. Or it was coming back. The memory of that cold, hungry energy flooded back, raising goosebumps along my arms.
Decision time. Now.