Damian's POV

"I am a monster for excusing myself at the deaths I should have saved."

—Damian Stark

The lights flicker once, twice, and then die, plunging us back into darkness. I sit among the others, illuminated only by the failing glow of broken ceiling tubes—some hanging at odd angles, others completely dead. Dust drifts downward like motes in a stale shaft of light, settling on my skin, making my eyes itch. Time has passed. I have no idea whether it's been over a day or merely the last dozen hours. My body is curled tight, knees to chest, armpit pressed against shin. I am too tired to uncoil.

Around me, murmurs ripple through shadows, distressing and unintelligible. I crouch, isolated by near‑deafness—an echoing hush as if I'm diving through murky water. My goggles gone, vision blurred; I can see the outlines of ten others who were too close to the blast, their faces gaunt in the half‑light.

Flicker…dark…flicker…dark.

Sometimes I drift across the wide corridor of the bunker like a ghost, but no one recognizes me as a doctor. Those I had helped before are gone—either carried away to other tunnels or already dead. Down here, at least a dozen meters below earth, none of us were severely wounded. I was caught just off the path—in a sub‑chamber between the tunnel and this bunker. If it weren't for that sky‑plate falling, we never would've made it here in time. It shattered my hearing, but spared my life. Ears don't matter much compared to survival.

Still, all the injured lie above now, beneath the stone, buried or lost. Some may have reached other bunkers near the lake, but most didn't make it.

I stand—more a lift than a move—and remain rooted beside a silent stranger. My face drains of what relief I felt at surviving. Survival itself feels shallow now, insufficient.

I stare at the flickering lights—artificial, cruel, mimicking a world that once boasted an eternal yellow sun. They pulse weakly, mocking the sun that "existed for billions of years" before the Apocalypse. Reality distorts between light and void, and I have no clue what to feel. The plate saved me, yes—but it also collapsed the only exit.

We number at least one hundred souls. Maybe more. I can't recall how much food is left, or water. Soon oxygen will dwindle. Soon we'll suffocate. Soon we'll rot in this earthen tomb. I place my hand over my wrist, feeling pulse thrum behind my ribs. Thoughts swim, but I push them away. I want to cherish this moment—surviving near‑death—but guilt claws at me.

I see…him. The old man from before. I killed his hope by not pulling him in time. I was the last through the door—I made it. One second more and my body would have been flattened with the others. He's gone. But his pleading hand haunts me.

My gaze drifts from the dead strip of flickering light to the stone floor and back to the corpseless void. Should I sleep? Maybe it would be merciful to drift off unaware, to avoid the reality of being eaten limb by limb outside, as the military failed to save them. Or crushed by falling sky fragments.

But I can't sleep. Not after what I did—and what I must still do.

I cannot let that be my undoing. The old man, wherever he is—maybe in some afterlife—whatever he's waiting for, I still owe him something. I have to do more than waste my remaining time here.

My family flickers into my mind—my anchor in this ghostly underworld. My father, strong though twice my age: even he would die protecting my mother and Lena. I ache with longing—I ache with fear. Saliva drips from the corner of my mouth, and I suddenly see it: a bitter, angry smirk curling the edge of my lips. I miss them more than my own breath.

But worse than the distance is the vulnerability. I fear something will happen to them.

I couldn't even protect a stranger in mud.

I swallow thickly, tasting grit and regret. I imagine my sister, bored and restless, kicking my leg during a family show. I think of my mother fussing over the dinner table, rearranging plates, reminding me to help. And my father—eyes glued to some fishing documentary I never understood, and frankly never cared about. I should've cared more.

Another flicker of light—sudden darkness—then back again the light. My eyes burn at the shift. I step forward, merging with restless forms, silhouettes pulsing in the intermittent glow. I massage my temples, trying to quell the hole drifting inside my skull—throbbing in rhythm with the flickering lights.

I vomit again—my second time since the collapse. My stomach grinds sour. The rest of the time I've spent in a corner, silent and separated. I don't know anyone here except a handful I observed in passing through the tents. No familiar faces. No colleagues. No soldiers I'd met. The rest died under the plate or fell to monsters outside. Maybe a few escaped to the lakeside bunker—but I doubt it.

I trudge through the darkness, stoic and hollow. I feel nothing. No sorrow. No anger. Just… emptiness.

Then I see them.

First, a soldier—a big one—standing rigid. His armor stained green. It marks him as one of the High‑Blooded. Extra strength, extra danger. But armor slows even them. He's holding a massive rifle, shoulders broad as a wall.

He looks down at me with narrowing eyes. "What is it?" His voice is low, sharp. I see steel grey in those flickering blue eyes.

Behind him, a woman steps into the light. Blonde like him, hair caught in messy waves. She's about my height—1.80. Slender, quick. No rifle, but twin daggers on her belt gleam ominously.

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"Frank, don't always scare them," she scolds. She smacks his shoulder—big enough to sting. "Goddamn it, hold your gun low."

Frank grunts. "But… not my fault if something happens and I'm too slow."

She sighs. "So what is it?"

They approach me. I lick parched lips. Light pulses again. Then goes.

I inhale tight to speak. "I—"

Boom!

I hear a sound as loud as the metal plate slamming shut—so sudden it punches the air from my lungs. The flickering lights overhead sputter once, then die entirely. I turn too fast, stumble over my feet, catching myself on my palms. Darkness. And then, light.

A blue glow pours in from above like strands of silk unraveling from the ceiling. It seems distant at first, dozens of meters away—right at the spot where that massive metal plate blasted apart our only entrance and exit. The hole pulses and grows.

Stones fall with the speed of bullets, whistling through the bunker. They rip through anyone beneath them in the blink of an eye. I see men and women torn open, blood blooming in grotesque patterns on the floor. The blue light intensifies, flooding a quarter of the room as the hole widens even further—until something moves in it.

A hand.

Massive. Orange in color, like rusted metal or molten clay.

I go pale, and I see the same shock reflected in the others. My gaze flickers to Frank—broad-shouldered, breathing hard—and the young woman near him, her eyes wide. I squint at them as I scramble backwards, my knees and palms scraping against the rough floor.

"Get away!" a voice shrieks from somewhere behind them.

I turn and spot her—a woman pressing her shaking, blood-soaked hands onto the gut of a man lying beside her. Both look too damn young. His blood is everywhere, darkening the white strips of cloth she's trying to knot over the wound. She sobs. The sound makes my stomach twist.

I keep crawling back, trying to make distance between myself and that orange limb reaching in from above. Frank and the girl grow smaller in my view. Other soldiers storm past me, rifles up, eyes hard.

Pow! Pow! Pow!

Gunshots roar in the confined space, deafening, so many at once that it's impossible to tell where they're coming from.

And in the midst of this chaos, I see it emerge fully.

The orange creature. Ork-like in stature but worse—unnatural, its flesh pulsing, breathing almost. It looms over the girl. We stand far away, in the darkness, unable or unwilling to close the distance.

Their bullets strike it, but most shots miss or glance off harmlessly. The few that hit merely spark or bounce, leaving it unbothered. It doesn't even flinch.

It walks instead. Slowly. Deliberately.

Toward the sobbing woman.

She doesn't run. She can't. She shakes so hard her teeth chatter, clutching the shredded man beneath her as though she could hold him together. Blood pools under them, made alien by the cold blue light.

All around them, others lie bleeding or perfectly still. Some are dead. Some are too shocked to move.

Me?

I keep crawling like an insect, hating every second of it. I'm on my back, legs kicking for purchase, palms scraping the ground. I want to scream at myself to stand up. Doctor, I sneer in my head. Coward.

But my body moves on instinct. I need cover. I need safety.

Finally I roll, force my legs under me, and stagger upright. My eyes are fixed on the horror ahead, unable to look away.

I see the girl's upper body jerk violently.

Her torso blossoms open in a spray of organs and blood. It hits the walls with a sickening slap, paints the ground in shades of red that look almost violet under the harsh blue light.

My stomach clenches.

Other hands follow through the ceiling breach, clawing their way in. Green hands. Blue hands. Each one inhuman, flexing with obscene purpose.

The gunfire dies. Clicks of empty magazines echo.

Soldiers lower their weapons, defeated. Except Frank. And one girl beside him.

I'm still looking for somewhere to hide, my heart thundering in my chest so loud I'm sure they can all hear it.

"DO NOT SPEAK IN THE TONGUE OF OUR GODS."

The orange creature's voice rattles the walls. It's not just loud—it's heavy, pressing into your bones.

If Frank is big to me, this thing is an elephant to me. Even more than that.

I see Frank move. He shouts something I can't hear over the ringing in my ears. Then he storms forward.

My first thought: He knows he's going to die.

But he does it anyway.

Why?

Bitter anger coils in my gut. Fool, I think. Hero. Idiot.

The woman behind him follows, close enough that her outline seems to merge with his. For a moment, they're both cast in that hellish blue light, two black silhouettes to the rest of us skulking in the dark.

I see more of them behind the creature now. Faceless things. Beings that look human from afar, but wrong up close. Their skin is pale and stretched, mouths cracked open, some lined with jagged teeth, others empty pits. Maggots writhe from the holes in their faces and wounds, crawling out lazily as if they have all the time in the world.

Some of these monsters are blue-skinned but not zombies, standing straighter, cleaner somehow—like minders among livestock.

Frank charges.

He slows deliberately, planting himself wide. He stops a meter away.

The orange thing doesn't move.

It waits.

Its head tilts, as though it's thinking.

It's smart, I realize with a cold, clinical dread.

But I see their plan.

The woman behind Frank is crouched low, her body in his shadow. She's hidden from the creature's view, her dagger in hand.

And then it happens.

The orange giant swings.

Slow. Almost lazy. It's nothing like the earlier brutal dismemberment. Its fist collides with Frank's chest. I hear bones snap.

He flies backwards, smacking into the opposite wall like a ragdoll.

And in the same instant, while that enormous arm is still swinging, the woman lunges.

She rises from Frank's shadow like a phantom, slipping into the blue light. Her hair catches the glow, a gold halo around a face twisted in determination.

She's cut her own palm. Blood drips down the hilt of the dagger she grips.

She drives it into the creature's cheek.

It sinks in deep.

She wrenches it free, going for another strike, but the thing reacts.

A monstrous fist blurs.

I see her arm fly away, severed at the shoulder.

She doesn't scream right away. There's a stunned pause before the sound rips free.

She curls on the ground, gasping, a keening wail leaving her throat. Blood fountains from the stump, painting everything red.

"INTERESTING!"

The orange creature laughs.

The sound is wrong.

It vibrates in my ribs, rattles my teeth.

"DIAGO, HEAL HER."

She lies in a ball on the floor, shuddering, holding the stump against her chest.

One of the faceless steps forward.

It smiles. Too wide. Lips cracking, splitting.

"Yes, my lord."

He raises his forearm and cuts it open without hesitation. His blood runs in thick, dark rivulets. He grabs her chin with cracked fingers and forces it open.

She gags and chokes as he pours his blood into her mouth.

I fight the urge to vomit all the time.

The orange creature watches impassively.

"NOW; TAKE EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM: I WANT TO SEE THEM IN THE ARENA OR AS FOOD FOR THE BROWNS."

The faceless turn in unison.

Their boots thud against the stone.

Some wear ragged, bloody formal suits. Like office clerks resurrected from the grave, dead eyes shining with obedience.

I freeze.

I feel cold as the snow I haven't seen in years.

And then—one of them turns.

Its eyes lock onto mine.

Empty sockets, but I feel them.

It smiles widely.

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