He texted you. At three in the morning. Mid-mission. You can practically hear his voice, see the way he’d lean back with that stupid, lazy grin, one arm slung over some random expensive chair he bought on a whim.

You haven’t replied. You’re too busy scanning the tunnel’s entrance. The darkness inside is absolute, swallowing the dim streetlights behind you like a throat. A faint, rotten wind exhales from the mouth of the tunnel, carrying the smell of wet rust and something dead.

There’s a flicker of movement inside. Your hand moves to the hilt of your weapon.

The last text arrives, the screen glowing briefly against the dark before fading out. Then, from deep inside the tunnel, something shifts. A dragging sound, slow and wet, like a body being pulled across gravel. And then a laugh. Not a human one. It’s too many voices at once, layered and echoing, and it gets louder by the second. The tunnel starts to shake. Dust falls from the ceiling. The ground splits. And whatever’s inside finally decides it’s done waiting.

Then the darkness lunges.