The tunnel twisted sharply, forcing Wesker and Garrick to slow their pace. The air was growing colder, thick with the scent of rust and damp concrete. Every few steps, a loose pipe dripped water, the sound echoing like a ticking clock.
Tick. Drip. Tick. Drip.
A countdown to whatever was hunting them.
Then—a scrape.
Not from behind.
From above.
Wesker’s breath hitched. His synthetic fingers tensed around the stranger’s arm as he helped them forward. They were barely staying on their feet, blood darkening their torn expedition gear. “Not much further,” he muttered, more to himself than them.
Garrick was already at the next door, a reinforced hatch at the tunnel’s end. He pressed his palm against an old biometric scanner, and the lock hissed in response. “Come on, come on…”
Then—
A thud.
A second thud.
And then—silence.
Wesker looked up. The metal ceiling above them was denting outward, something pressing through the steel.
The hatch finally clicked open.
“GO!” Garrick barked.
They stumbled into the next room—larger, more open. Pipes and steam vents lined the walls, leading up to a ladder—one that went straight to the surface.
A way out.
Behind them, the ceiling burst open.
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Wesker turned just in time to see it drop through.
A machine—twisted and unnatural. Its humanoid frame was thin but unnervingly tall, with elongated arms that ended in bladed claws. Wires pulsed under its armored plating, glowing red veins of energy running through its body. Its face—if it could be called that—was a single, narrow slit of red light where eyes should have been.
The moment it landed, it moved.
No hesitation. No wasted motion.
It lunged.
Wesker shoved the stranger toward the ladder and barely had time to raise his synthetic arm before the machine’s claw swiped at him. The impact sent a shockwave up his metal limb, rattling his bones.
Garrick moved fast—he yanked a steam valve open, sending a hiss of scalding vapor into the machine’s side. It staggered, but only for a second.
Wesker didn’t wait. He grabbed Garrick’s collar and hauled him toward the ladder. The stranger was already climbing.
The machine recovered—its red eye flickered and locked onto Wesker.
He bolted.
Hand over hand, he pulled himself up the ladder. Below, the machine leapt—too fast, too strong.
Garrick kicked at it mid-climb, knocking it back. “Move, dammit!”
Wesker lunged for the exit hatch. He barely managed to throw it open before the stranger grabbed his wrist and yanked him through. Garrick followed—just as the machine sank its claws into the ladder.
Wesker slammed the hatch shut.
BOOM.
The impact shook the ground.
But the lock held.
For now.
Breathing hard, Wesker looked up. They were in an alley—narrow, damp, and lit only by the neon glow of the city beyond. Garbage lined the walls. A homeless man muttered something in his sleep, oblivious to their near-death escape.
“…That thing’s not normal,” Wesker muttered.
“No kidding,” Garrick wheezed.
The stranger groaned and slumped against the alley wall, gripping their wound.
Wesker snapped out of it. “Right. The doc. Where?”
The stranger took a ragged breath. “…East Sector. 5th Street. Ask for ‘Doc Varro.’ He—he owes me.”
Wesker nodded. “We move now.”
The clinic was hidden beneath a pawn shop, past a rusted security door with a cracked screen displaying a faded neon red cross.
Garrick banged on the door twice. No answer. He was about to hit it again when a voice crackled through an unseen speaker.
“I don’t do walk-ins.”
“This ain’t a walk-in,” Wesker said. “It’s a favor.”
Silence.
Then—the door unlocked.
Inside, the air smelled like antiseptic and old whiskey. The room was cluttered—half clinic, half cybernetics workshop.
A man in his fifties, lean and wiry, sat at a workbench. He barely glanced up as they entered. “Who the hell—” His eyes landed on the wounded stranger.
“…Damn it,” Doc Varro sighed. “What mess did you get into this time?”
The stranger smirked weakly. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
