The wind that blew through Hollowpoint's concrete veins was not wind at all.
It was breath.
And it whispered at night.
Aurora sat on her cot in the corner of the cramped bunkroom, back against the wall, staring at the rusted ceiling pipe that dripped water every ten seconds like a clock marking down her patience. Across from her, Jace lay awake on his own cot, eyes open, pretending not to be afraid.
Neither of them slept.
"You hear that?" he asked finally.
She nodded once. "It's not just wind."
The other survivors were asleep—or pretending to be. But they didn't know this place like she did. Not the way Ash knew it. Not the way Aurora remembered it.
Because beneath the floorboards of Hollowpoint ran a tunnel system.
One built not for escape—
But for containment.
---
The next morning, Aurora didn't ask permission.
She wandered the base like she owned it, ignoring the glares, the half-whispers, the heavy silence that clung to her like soot. She counted her steps, retraced old memories, and paused at a locked door behind the kitchen—a door that didn't exist anymore in this life.
It should've been gone.
She pressed her palm to it.
And heard breathing.
No. Not breathing.
Growling.
Low. Wet. Close.
Aurora stepped back, blood running cold. The lock on the door was thick, bolted. New.
Whatever was behind there—it wasn't infected.
Not anymore.
It was something else.
---
Later, Jace cornered her near the water barrels. "You're hiding something from me."
"I'm hiding a lot of things from you."
He scowled. "Why the hell are we still here? We should've left."
She looked around, voice low. "Because there's a monster in this base. And it's wearing a human's face."
He blinked.
She didn't elaborate.
---
That night, Aurora broke in.
It wasn't hard.
A wire, a nail, and memory was all she needed to pick the lock and slip into the black.
The stairwell beyond the door spiraled down into wet concrete and rotting air. The lightbulbs overhead flickered with every step she took. One went out. Then another.
Her shadow grew longer behind her.
And somewhere far below… something sniffed.
She paused.
Breathed in.
Rot. Blood. Chemicals. Fear.
She kept moving.
At the bottom of the stairs was a corridor lined with glass rooms.
Holding cells.
Inside the first one sat a girl. No more than sixteen. Her skin was pale, almost grey. Her veins pulsed black. Her eyes—when they opened—were solid white.
But she didn't lunge.
Didn't scream.
She sat there, breathing. Crying.
Human.
Still human.
Infected.
Contained.
Aurora's hands curled into fists.
---
Room after room.
Each one worse than the last.
Bodies suspended in liquid. Children strapped to chairs. Grown men clawing at walls as if trying to tear their own skin off.
And then—the last room.
Room Twelve.
Aurora stopped in front of it.
The file taped to the door read:
Subject 001 – "Echo"
Type: Variant
Status: Stable (Unpredictable)
She opened it.
Inside was… a boy.
Thirteen. Maybe fourteen.
Chained to the wall like an animal.
But his eyes were bright gold—not infected. Not turned. Not dying.
He looked up the moment she stepped in.
"You're not one of them," he whispered.
Aurora stared at him, heart thundering. "Who are you?"
"I'm what they're trying to make."
His eyes glowed.
"They're turning the infected into weapons."
---
Footsteps.
Aurora spun.
Luther stood at the end of the hall, flanked by two of his dogs.
"Well," he said, eyes cold. "You just had to look under the floorboards, didn't you?"
Aurora stepped in front of the boy. "This is what you've been doing?"
"I'm saving humanity," Luther replied calmly. "And if you think you're walking out of here with that kid—think again."
"I'm not walking."
Her voice was ice.
"I'm burning this place to the ground."
---
What happened next wasn't clean.
It wasn't cinematic.
It was blood. Gunfire. Screams.
Jace appeared in the chaos, swinging a metal pipe like his life depended on it—which it did. They ran through fire and glass and the cries of things that used to be human.
Aurora shot Luther.
Not to kill him.
Not yet.
She aimed for his leg.
Let him crawl.
Let him remember her face as Hollowpoint fell.
---
They escaped through the old drainage system. Aurora carried the boy—Echo—on her back. He didn't weigh much. Just the weight of everything wrong in this world.
By morning, Hollowpoint was burning behind them.
And ahead?
A long road into what remained of civilization.
Or what passed for it.
---
Jace looked over at Aurora as they moved through the woods.
"You knew this place would fall."
"I made sure of it."
"And the kid?"
Aurora glanced down at Echo. He was asleep now. Breathing steady. But sometimes, his veins pulsed gold.
"Don't worry," she said quietly.
"We'll use what they made to destroy them."