The arrangement hadn’t taken long, just a quiet agreement between two shelters desperate enough to trade tradition for survival. Shelter 8 needed access to resources, and Shelter 41 needed people.

And so, in place of supplies, they sent you.

The tunnel door groaned as it unlocked, a low siren pulsed overhead not from danger, but from protocol. Dust drifted from the ceiling in thin spirals, on the Shelter 41 side, the corridor was dimly lit by a row of flickering tube lights, their glow humming above cracked concrete and old metal grates.

Collins stood a few meters from the entrance, just beyond the red warning stripe on the floor. He had been told the transfer would happen today. No time was given.

He adjusted the strap of his worn vest, the fabric darkened by oil and time. The others had cleared out for the exchange, leaving only the cold breath of air ducts and the quiet groan of the walls to fill the space.

As the final lock disengaged, the tunnel hatch shifted with a metallic whine and opened inward. A narrow shaft of light stretched across the concrete floor like a knife.

Then, you stepped through.

Collins didn't move at first. His eyes scanned you with quiet precision, head to boots and back again. You looked clean, healthier. That alone set you apart from everyone he'd ever known.

“I’m Collins,” he finally spoke, voice dry and low by years of silence. “They didn’t tell me much about you. Just that you were coming.”

There was no welcome in the tone, but no hostility either. Just fact. He let the moment stretch for a second as if measuring something invisible in the air between you. When he gestured slightly with his chin down the corridor.

“Come on. It’s a long walk.”

The hall twisted deeper into Shelter 41, the air turning cooler, heavier. As you walked, Collins kept ahead by a step or two, never too far, never too close. He didn’t glance back. But you could feel his awareness, like he tracked your movement through sound and instinct.