Wyvern moved first through the narrow service tunnel, crouched low with his twin blades held ready in both hands. The metal edges caught faint reflections from emergency lights spaced far apart along the ceiling. He kept his steps slow and quiet, pausing at every corner to peer around it before waving the others forward. Violet followed a few paces behind, her purple mist kept tight around her feet to stay silent. Silvester brought up the rear, sniper rifle held across his chest, finger near the trigger guard. None of them spoke much. The air grew thicker the deeper they went, heavy with the smell of decaying flesh.
The tunnel sloped downward in a long, gradual decline. Water dripped from cracks in the concrete walls, pooling in shallow spots on the floor. Wyvern tested each step before committing his weight, blades ready to slice if anything jumped out. At one junction he stopped, held up a hand, and listened. Nothing but the drip of water and their own breathing. He advanced, checking the next corner, then motioned them on.
"Clear," he said quietly.
Violet nodded once. Silvester adjusted his grip on the rifle. "This place smells like... It's actually that bad I can't think of a joke. How far down does this go?"
"Keep it down," Violet whispered.
They continued. The hallway widened slightly after another fifty meters, but the smell grew stronger. Rotting meat, old blood, something sour underneath it all. Wyvern's nose wrinkled but he did not slow. He crouched lower at the next bend, blades angled forward so he could view round by looking in the blades reflection, scanning the passage ahead. Empty. They moved on.
Minutes stretched. The group passed old storage rooms with doors hanging off hinges, broken pipes leaking greenish water, and faded warning signs that no one had read in years. Wyvern checked each doorway, blades first, before they passed. Violet stayed close enough to pull them out if needed, her eyes scanning the ceiling and walls. Silvester walked backward for short stretches, covering their rear.
"Anything?" Silvester asked after a while, voice low.
"Still following the smell," Wyvern answered.
They reached a longer straight section. The glow appeared at the far end, faint at first, then steadier. It wasn't like typical room light. This was warmer, almost yellow, coming from under a set of double doors.
Silvester tapped Wyvern's shoulder. "My turn." He jogged forward in a low crouch, rifle up, and took position at the corner just before the doors. He knelt, aimed the barrel straight at the door seam, and held steady. Violet moved up silently on the opposite side, crouching low against the wall, one hand ready to summon mist.
Wyvern straightened his posture. He walked forward without rushing, blades still in hand, and placed both palms on the doors. He pushed.
The doors swung open.
A giant jaw, human but oversized and stretched wide, snapped down toward his skull. Teeth the size of palms aimed to crush bone. Wyvern did not flinch. A shot cracked from behind him. Silvester's bullet struck the creature square in the side of the jaw, snapping its head back in a spray of dark blood. The body flew across the room, sliding and twitching on the concrete floor.
Wyvern stepped inside. Around the large chamber, more creatures—human and demi human bodies twisted and rotting—strained against heavy chains bolted to the walls. Each one had a thick collar around its neck. They ran in place, feet slapping the floor, jaws snapping open and shut in constant hunger. Their eyes were clouded white. Skin hung loose in places, torn in others. The room stank worse up close, the source of the decay they had followed.
Violet and Silvester moved in fast. Violet took the left side, crouching low to check under tables and behind stacked boxes. Silvester swept the right, rifle sweeping each corner. "Clear left," Violet called after a minute. "Clear right," Silvester confirmed. They met back near the center.
Wyvern stood in the middle of the room, blades lowered but still ready. He looked at the chained creatures, then breathed in slowly through his nose and let it out. He raised one hand and wiped it across the air in front of his face. The chains around every neck tightened at once. Metal clamps snapped shut. Heads popped off in a series of wet cracks and rolled across the floor, bodies slumping against the walls.
The sudden silence felt heavier than the noise had.
Silvester walked over to one of the heads, knelt, and poked it with the barrel of his rifle. He rolled it over with the tip. "Ugly bastard. Looks like it tried to eat itself before someone chained it up." He looked closer. "Teeth are still sharp though. Fresh breaks on a couple."
Violet pulled a pair of gloves from a pocket in her dress and slipped them on. She moved to the nearest body and began examining it, fingers pressing into the decayed flesh. "Organs inside are still strong in places. Half look dead, but some muscle and tissue feel... tough. Not normal decay."
Wyvern walked to the nearest table. Blood covered the surface. Knives of different sizes lay scattered among severed limbs and other body parts. He picked up a sheet of paper stained at the edges. It was a medical note.
Patient: Marcus Hale
Age: 34
Height: 5'11"
Weight: 81 kg
Marital Status: Married
Family: Wife, two children ages 7 and 4
Occupation: Maintenance worker, Northern Sector
Diagnosis: Smog Syndrome
Symptoms: Progressive tissue necrosis, increased aggression, jaw hypertrophy, loss of higher function. No prior history.
Routine Check: Vital signs elevated. Tissue samples show abnormal regeneration in core organs despite surface decay.
Wyvern had never heard of Smog Syndrome. He set the paper down and moved to the next table. Another note. Same disease. Different patient. Female this time, teacher from the college above. Same symptoms listed. No connections between them.
He kept going, table by table. Each note followed the same pattern. Rare disease. Personal details. Check-up results that made no sense. One patient was a student, another a delivery driver, another listed as retired military. All ended up here, chained and changed.
Silvester grabbed a note from a different table and scanned it. "Listen to this one. Patient liked long walks on the beach and collecting stamps. Now he's collecting teeth in his own mouth after ripping them from other corpses. Hell of a hobby change." He chuckled once, then passed the paper to Wyvern. "Same crap. Smog Syndrome. These people didn't know each other. Why all in one room?"
Wyvern took the note and added it to the small stack he was building. "Testing. Or storage. Not sure yet."
Violet kept working on the body. She made a small cut with a scalpel from the table and peeled back skin. "Bite marks here on the shoulder. Deep. Human teeth. And these bruises on the arms look like someone beat it after it changed. Not self-inflicted."
She moved to another table. This body had fewer bite marks but more bruising across the torso. "Different stages. Some turned faster than others."
The room was large, maybe thirty meters across. Metal tables lined three walls. Shelves held jars with floating tissue samples. A drain ran down the center of the floor, stained dark. Wyvern continued checking notes. He counted twelve bodies originally chained. Eleven medical files so far. Each one documented the same unknown disease. No cure mentioned. No cause. Just observations and measurements.
Silvester poked through boxes on the far side. "Got more tools over here. Saws, clamps, injection needles. Some still have residue. Looks like they were pumping something into these poor sods." He lifted a syringe and held it to the light. Empty. "Anyone want to guess what Smog stands for? Super Messed-up Organ Nightmare Goop?"
"Not now," Violet said, but her tone lacked its usual sharpness. She was focused on the body in front of her. "The tough parts under the decay... it's like the disease tries to reinforce the body even while it rots the outside. Jaws get bigger for biting. Strength increases. But the mind goes."
Wyvern stopped at a table near the back. This note was different. It had extra lines at the bottom.
Progress Notes: Subject shows resistance to standard sedatives. Recommend higher dosage for next batch. Transfer to lower levels pending full conversion.
He folded it and put it with the others. Lower levels. There was more to this place.
The group worked in near silence for a while, the only sounds the rustle of paper and the occasional shift of a body under Violet's gloves. Silvester kept making small jokes to fill the quiet.
"Bet this guy was a real pain before he lost his head. Literally." He nudged another rolled head with his boot. "No wedding ring on this one. Guess a wife didn't give these hickeys."
"Enough," Wyvern said, but without heat. He understood the need to talk. The smell alone could drive a person mad if you let it settle.
Violet straightened from her latest examination. "These bite marks vary. Some bodies bit each other. Others show fist impacts. Like they were fighting while chained."
Wyvern looked at the chains again. Thick links, bolted deep into the wall. His metal control had made short work of them earlier, but someone had put real effort into holding these creatures here. "They wanted them alive. Or at least active. For study."
Silvester leaned against a table, rifle resting on his shoulder. "Study for what? Some new weapon? Maybe another cult trying to make their own super soldiers? Monarch types but with less personality and more hunger?"
"Possible," Wyvern said. He picked up another note. This patient had been brought in three weeks ago. Symptoms started mild—fatigue, then aggression, then the physical changes. "Timelines differ. Some progressed in days. Others slower."
Violet removed her gloves and wiped her hands on a clean rag she found. "The strong organs suggest it keeps the host useful longer. Even after the mind is gone. Efficient, in a sick way."
They gathered near the center again. Wyvern held the stack of notes. Twelve patients. Twelve files. All labelled Smog Syndrome. None of the names familiar, but the college above and the sectors around it meant these people had lives up there. Families. Jobs. Now just parts on tables.
Silvester flipped through a couple more papers he had collected. "This one was a janitor here at the college. Probably the one who found the wrong door. Bad luck."
Wyvern nodded slowly. The itch in his chest from earlier had returned. This was not random. Hidden hatch, unmapped, medical setup deep under a public building. Someone had been working here for weeks at least.
Violet checked the far wall, running her hand along it. "No other exits visible. But the note you found mentioned lower levels. There must be a way down."
Before anyone could respond, they all froze. Footsteps. Coming from the hallway outside the double doors. Slow at first, then steadier. Multiple sets.
The three of them turned toward the door together, weapons ready once more. Wyvern's blades shifted in his grip. Violet's mist began to curl at her ankles. Silvester raised his rifle.