The underground labyrinth seemed endless. Isabelle ran until her legs trembled, until her breath burned raw in her throat. Behind her, the cacophony of footsteps faded into oppressive silence.
The flashlight gripped in her hand flickered once, twice, then steadied again. She dared not look behind her. Some primal instinct told her that whatever was chasing them wasn't merely human anymore—it was something deeper, more patient, as if it had always been waiting here for them.
Théo had been separated from her somewhere in the tangle of corridors. Isabelle didn't know if he was safe. She didn't know if she would be.
All she could do was move.
Her boots slipped on damp stone as she turned a sharp corner. A gust of freezing air hit her so hard she staggered back, clutching her chest.
Cold.
Unnatural cold, down here, where the city's underground should have been stifling and wet.
The passage opened up into a larger room—a metal door swinging wide, almost inviting.
A storage room?
No. A freezer.
She stepped inside before she could think better of it, her breath frosting instantly in front of her mouth.
The walls and floor were coated in a thin layer of rime, sparkling in the pale light. Boxes lay toppled in the corners, some split open to reveal rotted fabric, broken chains, and shattered porcelain.
The door behind her groaned on its hinges. Isabelle spun, but before she could react, the door swung shut with a hiss of escaping air.
The click of a lock sliding into place echoed like a gunshot.
Isabelle rushed back to the door, pounding it with her fists. "Théo! Anyone!"
No answer.
Only silence.
Only the slow, rhythmic ticking coming from somewhere deeper inside the room.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
It sounded mechanical—steady. Like a heartbeat made of cold iron.
Carefully, shivering violently, Isabelle pushed further into the room, her boots leaving shallow prints in the frost. The air grew even colder the farther she moved. It became difficult to breathe, her lungs tightening as if invisible hands were squeezing them.
The ticking grew louder.
She found it on a shelf: an old-fashioned metronome, black and battered, swinging back and forth.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Above it, carved roughly into the wall through the frost, were strange markings. Symbols she didn't recognize at first—shapes distorted by the ice.
She leaned closer.
No, not symbols.
Letters.
Scraped out by hand.
"You were here."
The words slammed into her chest harder than the cold.
A sudden flash—memory—rippled through her.
She saw herself, a child again, running down these tunnels. Laughter echoing in her ears. Not fear then—excitement. Shadows moving with her, not against her. A figure reaching for her hand.
Vivienne?
No. Another. Taller. Different.
The memory slipped away before she could hold it, leaving her gasping against the freezing wall.
"You were here."
How long had this been planned? How deep did it go?
Isabelle's vision blurred. She stumbled back toward the door, now crusted with thick frost. The metal burned her palms as she pounded it again.
Still no answer.
The ticking slowed.
Tick...
Tick......
Tick.
Then silence.
The metronome stopped mid-swing.
The light from her flashlight dimmed—then sputtered out completely, leaving her in a darkness so thick she thought she might drown in it.
And then, from the darkness, a sound.
Not footsteps.
Not breathing.
Something scraping against the ice.
Something close.
Isabelle backed up until her spine hit the frozen wall. Her heart thundered against her ribs.
The darkness shifted—something moved in front of her, unseen but undeniable.
She closed her eyes, pressed herself flatter against the wall, and tried to calm her breathing. The cold gnawed at her skin, at her bones, pulling heat from her with greedy fingers.
Then a new sound.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Water?
No.
Blood.
She could smell it—thick, coppery, tangy—bleeding into the frozen air.
A voice whispered through the darkness, barely audible:
"You shouldn't have come back."
Isabelle spun blindly, but there was no one there. Just empty air and deep, frozen silence.
Her fingers found the wall again—found the words again. You were here.
Desperate, teeth chattering so hard she thought they might break, she dug into the frost with her nails, feeling something beneath it.
A line.
Another line.
Hidden messages, scratched deeper into the wall.
Her breath caught.
Beneath the frost, she uncovered another sentence:
"Find the first lie."
Her mind reeled.
First lie?
Had she been lied to her entire life? Was everything she remembered tainted?
A groan echoed through the room as the door shuddered, ice cracking around its frame. Someone—or something—was outside.
Trying to get in.
The handle jerked, once, twice.
She didn't wait.
Using the last reserves of her strength, Isabelle turned and sprinted across the room, looking for another exit, another chance.
There—behind a row of fallen crates—an old service hatch, rimmed with ice but slightly ajar.
Without thinking, she threw herself at it, pushing, kicking, clawing until the hatch gave way with a shriek of metal.
Cold air rushed past her, pulling at her hair and clothes like invisible hands.
She squeezed through the gap just as the main door burst open behind her.
She didn't look back.
The service tunnel was even narrower, and colder if possible, but she forced herself forward, scraping her knees and elbows against the rough walls.
Minutes—or maybe hours—later, the air warmed slightly. The walls shifted from frozen steel to damp stone again. She found herself crawling into a wider passage.
She collapsed onto the ground, gasping for air.
When she finally raised her head, she saw it.
Another message, daubed in black paint across the wall:
"Witness what sleeps beneath."
And below it—a fresh handprint smeared in crimson.
Vivienne's hand?
Or someone else's?
Her mind screamed at her to run, but her body refused to move.
The cold still clung to her lungs, her heart, her very blood.
Frozen.
Waiting.
Watching.
And somewhere deeper in the tunnels, she heard it:
The faint, rhythmic ticking of another metronome.
Closer this time.
Waiting for her to come.
To be continued...