Ethan's return to the other world felt strange—like waking into a half-remembered dream that refused to let go. The air in the sewer was thick and stale, carrying the faintest scent of rust and damp earth. It wasn't just cold; it was oppressive, as if the air itself carried memories of things better left forgotten. Every sound—every drip of water or scrape of stone—felt too sharp, too deliberate, as though something was waiting for them to notice.
He followed the boy and girl through the winding tunnels. Their footsteps echoed unnervingly, like the sewer was mocking them with an eerie mimicry. Shadows clung to the walls, stretching unnaturally long under the dim emergency lights that flickered without rhythm, as if undecided whether to stay on or plunge them into darkness.
That was when he heard it—a distant clatter, rhythmic and wrong, like hooves clicking on concrete. Ethan felt his pulse quicken, though he hadn't yet seen what was coming.
The boars arrived quietly at first, their presence announced only by the slow shuffle of hooves that grew louder as they approached. When they emerged from the shadows, Ethan's stomach tightened. These were no ordinary animals. Their sagging skin hinted at deformity, and their glassy eyes, black as wet stones, reflected no emotion. They moved slowly, but there was a heaviness to them—like creatures that knew they had time on their side.
"Run," whispered the boy.
And that was all it took.
They sprinted down the twisting tunnels, Ethan's heart hammering in his chest as the creatures gave chase, their pace shifting from a lazy shuffle to something faster, more deliberate. The sound of hooves echoed unnervingly, bouncing off the walls until it felt like they were everywhere at once. Ethan resisted the urge to look back—something told him it was better not to see too much.
They reached a side passage, slamming a rusted grate shut behind them. The iron groaned under the weight of the creatures as they pressed forward, snouts twitching through the gaps, exhaling puffs of sour breath. They didn't snarl or thrash. They simply stood there, waiting, watching with an unsettling stillness.
"We need to get to the undermarket," the small scared boy whispered, his voice hoarse.
Ethan caught his breath, leaning against the wall. "Why's that? What's at this undermarket?"
The little girl's response was soft, almost lost beneath the drip of water from overhead overhearing the conversation and looking in the darkness. "It's where this all started."
Reluctantly, Ethan followed them deeper into the tunnels. The further they went, the colder the air became, and the lights grew dimmer until the tunnel felt more like a tomb. Time seemed to stretch and fold here, each step an eternity. Ethan's skin prickled with the sense that they weren't just being followed—they were being invited deeper.
When they finally reached the underground market, Ethan froze. The place felt… wrong. Stalls stood abandoned, their goods long since decayed into unrecognizable piles. A thin film of dust coated everything, though nothing looked disturbed—as if the market had been waiting, untouched, for someone to return.
There was a stillness here that wasn't natural. It was the kind of quiet that settles in places forgotten by the living.
Along one wall, Ethan noticed a row of old recording devices. One of them hummed softly, as though expecting his touch. He hesitated before pressing play, and the device crackled to life, filling the room with the grainy voice of a long-departed soldier.
"Day 137. They told us this was just another feeding station. Pigs bred to grow fast, produce more meat… nothing to worry about."
There was a pause, then the voice continued, softer now.
"But something wasn't right. The pigs changed. We changed. It felt like… the place itself was watching us, nudging things just out of sight."
Ethan frowned, his skin crawling as static filled the recording. When it resumed, the voice was barely above a whisper.
"Day 204. It's not the pigs. It never was. They're just the surface—something else is here. It wants us to stay. It wants to keep us."
The recording clicked off abruptly, leaving Ethan standing in thick silence. He felt as though the room had shifted slightly, the walls drawing closer.
The girl tugged his sleeve, her expression distant. "The pigs weren't the real experiment. They were the distraction."
Ethan's gaze drifted to a message scrawled on the wall, barely visible in the dim light. The words were smeared, but legible enough to send a shiver down his spine:
"No one leaves the market. It always brings them back."
Before Ethan could respond, the boy grabbed his arm, pulling him toward the exit. "We can't stay here."
The market seemed to exhale as they stepped into the tunnel, the air growing heavier, as if reluctant to let them go. Ethan glanced back only once. For a moment, it looked like the shadows had shifted—like something large and silent had slipped between the stalls, just out of sight.
Then the hooves started again, this time distant but deliberate. They weren't running. They were waiting—patient, confident that the tunnels would eventually lead Ethan back to them.
As they moved deeper into the sewer, Ethan couldn't shake the sense that they were walking in circles, drawn further into something they couldn't escape. The hooves followed, steady and relentless, always just at the edge of hearing.
The nightmare wasn't in what they had seen—it was in what they hadn't.
And Ethan knew, deep down, that they were only beginning to scratch the surface of whatever darkness lay beneath the market.