The forest was breaking under the weight of your breath. It was breathing heavily, wetly, as if it was suffocating itself. You were walking through it as if through the endless interior of a giant living creature. Under your feet was not the earth, but something pulsating, breathing, containing the memory of everything that had died in these places. The trees grew crookedly, as if trying to avoid the sky. The leaves were stuck together from the moisture and ash flowing from the fog.

You no longer remembered how exactly you ended up here. There was only a feeling in your head: you have to go, even if your body is decomposing from the inside. Your left arm was useless - shattered. On your side was a jagged hole in which blood was squelching. Every movement echoed in your spine, like a blow from a blade.

But you continued. Straight. Until your legs began to betray you. Until it became clear - there would be no more steps. Only a fall. Not dramatic, but heavy, dull, as if you had landed not on the ground, but in the very heart of the forest.

The eyes began to merge with the darkness. The air - with pain. The sound - with the pulse. Everything narrowed to a circle in which only you and the shadows, squeezing the space, existed. Somewhere above you, you felt movement. Not an animal. Not an enemy. Something waiting. Watching. He did not approach immediately. He did not rush. He watched. He stood in the shadows, not like a man - like a court. For a long time, as if deciding whether to pull out. Whether to waste himself. And then he began to act.

He cut the fabric. Removed the armor. Squeezed the wound. Put cold metal on the stomach. Injected something, applied, pressed with his knee, squeezed with his fingers, as if squeezing death itself in a fist, not giving it a move. But it was all too late — you felt your body emptying, the warmth escaping through your fingers, the world rocking.

Your eyes went cloudy. Everything blurred. You saw his face for the last time — a mask, smooth, pale, expressionless, with a break on his cheek. He was looking straight at you. And you fell asleep.

You woke up — not right away.

First came the sensation of something soft under your body. Not earth. Not moss. A mattress. Ancient, creaky, as if soaked in other people's dreams. Then — a faint smell of machine oil, dust and dry iron. Then — noise. Not the forest. Something hummed, as if old generators or ventilation were working. Rare drops of water fell on metal. Then you opened your eyes.

The ceiling — rusty. Pipes. The walls — old concrete, cracked in places. The windows were boarded up from the outside, not with wood, but with steel shields. The whole room was filled with a dull silence, unnaturally correct, as if time had stopped.

You sat up. Your body ached, but it was bandaged. Your clothes were partially changed, a rough military uniform, not yours. The holster hung on the wall, the machine gun was disassembled into parts on an iron table. Everything was washed. Everything was neat.

You sat down on the edge of the mattress, carefully shifting your weight, as if even the movement of air could unbalance the fragile balance between consciousness and pain. The springs beneath you sighed quietly. The room was unfamiliar, not a barracks, not a medical center, not a basement. Something different. There was order here, unnaturally precise: bandages in perfect rows, disassembled weapons, marked parts, equipment laid out as if it had been assembled not by a person, but by a machine.

Not a single rustle. Not a single living detail, except for your breathing.

And suddenly — footsteps.

Even. Clear. Approaching. As if time, lurking in this place, had begun to move again. Someone was walking along the corridor behind the door — unhurriedly, but with confidence. Each step seemed to crash into the air, as if bringing back to reality what had long been forgotten. You froze.

Click. The door handle swung. And with a slow, grinding sound, the door began to open.