Chapter 197
Marcus dragged himself forward through the filth-caked tunnel, jaw clenched so tightly his molars felt like they might crack. Each movement sent a jolt of pain screaming up his leg—a reminder of the broken mess below his knee. The world smelled of iron and mildew and something sour beneath it, something rotting and alive.
His flashlight had died hours ago. Now, he followed the flickering pulse of emergency lights embedded deep in the ceiling—red glows that barely illuminated more than a few feet ahead.
His fingers, slick with sweat and grime, gripped a rusted beam to pull himself further. His breath came in shallow, ragged bursts.
"Come on," he muttered, voice dry. "Come on, Marcus. You’ve been through worse."
He hadn’t.
Not like this.
Not alone. Not in these goddamned tunnels that had once housed research, security, life. Now it was all blood and echoes.
He paused, letting his weight slump against the concrete wall. His heart thudded unevenly in his ears. For a long minute, he listened.
Nothing.
Just the steady drip of condensation, the occasional groan of a pipe shifting in the walls.
His fingers twitched. He flexed them, just to feel something alive. It was too quiet. Too still. His body wasn’t meant to be this slow—Marcus had been trained for warzones, tactical entries, high-stress, high-speed chaos. But this? This was crawling through a grave no one remembered to bury. His brain buzzed with adrenaline and exhaustion, clashing like static.