The tunnels weren't as silent as they used to be.
Not because they were louder — they weren't. Not in any way that could be measured with a micrometer or sound sensor. But the silence had texture now. A shape. It clung to their skin like a presence, like the memory of a breath that hadn't been exhaled yet.
Tessa walked behind Hernan, her boots quiet but steady, each step echoing back differently — like the walls themselves were listening. Camilla followed just behind, steps fluid, careful, her posture military but her eyes haunted. She didn't trust the air down here. And maybe she was right not to.
But Hernan? Hernan moved like someone born in corridors like this. Like someone who'd never believed in light enough to miss it.
The deeper they went, the less time seemed to function. Lights grew dimmer. The floor shifted beneath their boots — metal giving way to old ceramic, to bone-colored slabs reinforced in a time before budget cuts and political oversight.
