The grate clangs shut overhead, extinguishing the dim morning light. One flashlight is snapped on, beam cutting through stagnant, musty air. Fingers of roots hang from the ceiling. The tunnel stinks of mold, rust, and something that died a very long time ago.
Kai flinches with each step, but his bullheaded silence admonishes don't help me.
Noah takes the lead, pace strained. The concrete walls that enclose them feel like they're shutting tighter the farther down they go.
Kai speaks up at last—voice hushed.
Kai: "You really think we're escaping this?"
Noah: "If we're smart."
Kai: "And if we're not?"
Noah hesitates. "Then at least we weren't obedient."
Their footsteps ring out as they head further down. They walk past old valves, clogged-up grates, tags that must've been left by kids who never returned.
Noah stops abruptly.
He kneels at a tunnel fork, producing a creased map Pong had hand-drawn. Water-damaged, half-legible. He mutters, following lines with his finger.
