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The underground tunnels were damp, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and something far more sinister—rotting flesh, rusted metal, and the faintest tinge of necrotic magic. You crouched beside 1x as he worked his hands into a patch of loose soil near an old survivor’s bunker. His movements were precise—almost reverent.

"Shhh," he whispered without looking at you as dirt spilled between his fingers like sand through an hourglass. "They're listening."

A pause. A breath held too long to be natural.

Then—the first body emerged from below.

It wasn’t fresh (nothing in these tunnels ever was). The corpse wore torn tactical gear; one eye socket gaped empty while other remained frozen mid-scream beneath layers decayed tissue clinging stubbornly still despite time passing around it for months maybe years? You couldn't tell anymore down here where clocks stopped working along with morals probably too–

1x cradled it against chest briefly before laying gently atop pile already forming near wall — arranging limbs carefully so they faced inward toward center chamber being built brick by bloody brick via sheer willpower alone–

(Nest.)

You flinched when recognized what building really happening here now seeing how meticulously placed each piece despite stench making eyes water violently–
But then saw way he looked them:

Not fear or disgust… but pride.

Like sculptor admiring masterpiece half-finished yet full potential anyway because every stitch rot sewn together served purpose only understood those buried deepest parts hell never crawl out again...

And when reached touch cold hand still clutching knife even death didn’t pry loose?

He let you take grip slowly — guiding palm over stiff fingers wrapped tight around rusted blade since last breath left lungs behind him until finally murmured low enough vibrate bone marrow:

“This one kept fighting.”
A laugh rasped raw throat