Blood and chunks of flesh sprayed from the Altar Priest’s shattered head, splattering across the gray concrete floor. Luk’s hands were trembling; he could no longer hold the swaying cleaver and let it fall to the ground. Not from fear—this was the result of the rage, hatred, and resentment he had carried inside for years. It was the first warmth of the vengeance he had long awaited.

  As footsteps outside drew closer, the trembling stopped. The tunnel’s endless metallic hum echoed off the walls and flooded Luk’s ears. But this was not the sound of wind—it was like the whisper of thousands of dead souls.

  VENGEANCE…

  The hum rose and merged with the voice in his mind.

  VENGEANCE… VENGEANCE… VENGEANCE…

  Now even the tunnel was muttering the same word with him. Drifting in the emptiness of his mind, he focused only on that rhythm.

  The tunnel’s cold silence, the nauseating hum, and the rhythm in his head were broken by two voices beyond the door. One flicked a lighter; the other cleared his throat. Luk barely managed to pick up the blood-soaked cleaver from the floor with trembling hands and held his breath. The voices were very close.

  The Apostles’ conversation:

  “Do you remember last month’s ritual? The Firstborn suddenly went mad and started tearing that woman’s body apart,” said the guard on the right.

  The other nodded.“I’m just thinking about when we’ll get to eat again. But after seeing that thing, I couldn’t eat anything for weeks. In these tunnels, we’ll either starve to death or lose our minds.”

  Luk watched them through the narrow gap of the door. The moment he found even the smallest opening, he had to get out. After a while, one of the Apostles began to sway; you’d have to be an idiot not to understand what was going on.

  “Cover for me, buddy. Bathroom break.”

  For Luk, an unmissable opportunity had appeared.

  He slowly cracked open the thick metal door. The Apostle, unaware that he was living his final minutes, was muttering to himself about the end of his shift. But that shift would never end.

  Luk silently slipped in behind him. In a single motion, he grabbed the Apostle’s head, sealed his mouth and nose, and yanked him inside with brutal force. As the Apostle froze with terror in his eyes, Luk pressed the cleaver against his throat without blinking.

  Maybe the Apostle hadn’t done all this willingly. Maybe he was just trying to survive. Maybe he was afraid.

  But isn’t that how life is?

  You pay for even the smallest mistake.

  FSSSSHT

  Blood burst from the cut in the Apostle’s neck. Like a snake, Luk finished the job in a single silent motion beneath the flickering dim lights of the cell.

  Mercy was a rare luxury here.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  This was Anthropocene’s End—you were either a killer or a victim.

  Luk dropped to his knees. The body of the Apostle whose throat he had just slit was still warm, and the flickering light cast a metallic shimmer over the fresh blood seeping across the floor.

  At first, he hesitated. Guilt crept in.

  But in these tunnels, guilt—like mercy—was a luxury.

  Just as Reis had taught him:

  “Either you become the killer, or you become the victim.Either you die, or you kill.”

  With trembling fingers, he reached for the corpse. He began unbuckling the straps on the Apostle’s belt. His hands were covered in blood. The metal was cold; the blood was sticky and warm. The scraping sound of the belt echoed through the tunnel’s hum.

  As he stripped off the light but durable handmade armor from the Apostle’s chest, the dead man’s eyes were still fixed on the flickering light above. Luk tried to put the armor on himself, but the blood made the straps slip through his fingers. He clenched his teeth in frustration and, with one final effort, pulled the straps tight with all his strength.

  The inner lining of the armor was damp with its former owner’s sweat—and now fresh blood. When Luk put it on, he shuddered, as if he could feel another person’s death against his skin.

  Hanging from the belt, he found a small flashlight and a folded, worn-edged map. As he stuffed the map into his pocket, his fingers struck something cold and heavy.

  The Apostle’s handgun.

  Engraved on the slide was an emblem. It looked nothing like the crude symbols of the Children of God. It was sharper, more industrial… disturbingly familiar.

  Luk felt like he’d been punched in the stomach.

  The seal of the Red Council.

  What business did the Red Council—deep within the Anatolian Side—have with the Children of God? This weapon wasn’t a gift; it was a mark of partnership. This bloody alliance between fanatics and atheist soldiers changed the scale of the horror in the tunnels. If even an inexperienced Apostle carried such a modified weapon, it meant the rulers of the tunnels were either preparing for a major war—or something far worse.

  The moment the weight of the gun settled into his hand, Luk felt the emptiness inside him close just a little.

  He was no longer just a fugitive.

  As he wiped his hands on the robe of the Altar Priest he had killed earlier, he realized disgust had given way to a cold acceptance.

  No matter what, he had to get Nerida’s child out of here too.

  Luk checked the suppressed pistol, wondering if it truly worked—but there was no time for doubt. He had to find where Nerida’s child was being held. What might the same fanatics who did this to him be doing to that child?

  He glanced at the map briefly.

  When he fully opened the door and stepped into the corridor, he came face to face with an Apostle returning from the restroom under the flickering lights.

  The Apostle hesitated when he saw the armor Luk was wearing and the unfamiliar weapon in his hands. He had mistaken him for a fellow guard—but the figure standing before him was the very “sacrifice” he had left inside moments ago.

  Just as the Apostle opened his mouth to scream, Luk raised the gun and aimed at his throat. As he slowly squeezed the trigger, Reis’s voice echoed in his mind:

  “If you hesitate, you die.”

  Puff…

  The bullet fired from the Red Council–supplied weapon appeared as a red dot in the darkness before piercing the Apostle’s flesh. The gun was far quieter than expected, releasing only a faint hiss of air.

  The Apostle collapsed onto the cold concrete, clutching his throat. Blood poured from the hole torn through his neck, the tunnel’s silence filled with his ragged, choking breaths.

  Luk knelt and removed the mask. He met the Apostle’s eyes—wide with terror, pleading through pain.

  For the first time, he witnessed up close the fear that consumes every part of you just before death claims you.

  He began to feel regret.

  Maybe the man had a family. A wife. A child.

  But none of that mattered anymore.

  One of them was going to die, no matter what.

  There was no turning back now.

  He had to reach the marked location on the map where they held people for the sacrifice ritual.

  All that remained ahead of him was a silent tunnel of death—stretching toward Nerida’s child.