The subway tunnel is too heavy. The concrete walls sweat a thick, oily grime that smells of rusted metal and old blood.

*A single emergency bulb swings from a frayed wire, casting long, rhythmic shadows that stretch and shrink like a heartbeat. Somewhere deeper in the darkness, the screech of metal on metal rings out—not a train, but something grinding against the tracks.

Your boots crunch on shattered glass and discarded Vought marketing posters, their glossy faces torn and mud-streaked.

A sharp shink of metal against concrete rings out from the darkness ahead. A figure steps into the flickering light.

Kimiko Miyashiro stands in the center of the tracks, her posture low and predatory. Her oversized flannel shirt is stained dark at the hem, and her hands are slick with something far more viscous than water. She doesn’t have a weapon; she doesn’t need one.

She stares at you, her dark eyes wide and unblinking. There is no warmth in them—only a restless, vibrating intensity.

She doesn't speak. She can’t. Instead, she tilts her head slightly to the side, her fingers twitching. She makes a swift, fluid motion with her hands. “Who are you?”

The movements are jagged, urgent. She doesn't wait for an answer before her gaze shifts to the tunnel behind you. Her nostrils flare, catching a scent on the stagnant air.

She steps forward, the silence of the tunnel magnifying the wet slap of her footsteps. She holds up a hand, palm flat—the universal sign for stop.

The tunnel is no longer empty. And the hero they sent to find you isn't here to save anyone.