Rin led Jisoo and Jihoon deeper into the subway tunnel. The dim light from behind them disappeared, swallowed by a cold, damp darkness that felt like a living thing pressing against their skin.
The humming sound vibrated through the concrete walls, buzzing in Rin's teeth. It was louder here, closer, as if the tunnel itself were alive and watching them.
Her boots splashed in shallow puddles of oily, dirty water. The air smelled sharply of mold and rust, stinging her lungs with every breath.
Jisoo followed, holding her chipped butcher's knife. Her bandaged arm was stiff, and the torn apron was soaked even darker with blood from the cut on her shoulder.
Each step showed her stubborn courage.
Jihoon held his broken mop stick, its splintered end scraping the ground. His breaths were short and shaky, and his wide eyes darted through the darkness, looking for danger—or his sister's ghost.
Rin gripped her lead pipe. It felt warm and sticky in her palm.
She felt cynical, which was like a weak anchor.
She felt responsible for the other two, a heavy burden, and it settled in her chest like ash.
The tunnel walls were tall, their cracked surfaces covered in graffiti that seemed to move in the dark.
"LISTEN" was written in red, the paint dripping like fresh wounds.
"HER VOICE" was written in black, jagged and uneven, as if scratched into the concrete.
Rin's stomach twisted with a cold, tight feeling.
Hana's faint voice from the radio—"Rin… where…"—echoed in her mind, a plea she couldn't ignore.
She pushed it down, her dark eyes scanning the shadows for any movement.
She tried to keep her breathing steady, despite the ache in her chest.
The air became heavier, thick with the damp, rotting smell.
A faint clicking sound echoed ahead—not the mimics' jerky rhythm but something smaller, mechanical, like a clock ticking in a dead room.
Jihoon froze, his stick trembling in his grip. His voice was barely a whisper.
"What's that?"
The words were rough with fear, and his young face was pale and drawn, his eyes wet with the grief he couldn't hide.
Rin crouched down, resting her pipe against her knee, and peered into the darkness.
A toy recorder was stuck in a rusty rail. Its plastic case was cracked, and a red light blinked faintly, like a dying pulse.
Her heart thumped, a warning she ignored. She reached out, her fingers brushing its cold surface, and pressed play.
Hana's voice came out—"Find me…"—clear, desperate, cutting through the humming sound like a knife.
The sound hit Rin hard, and she caught her breath.
The sketchbook in her jacket suddenly felt heavy, reminding her of a loss she couldn't face.
She froze, the recorder shaking in her hand.
Hana's voice repeated in her head, both real and impossible.
Jisoo's eyes narrowed, her knife still raised.
She seemed practical but also uneasy.
"That's not right," she muttered, her voice low and grounded, but her gaze flicked to Rin, looking for answers Rin didn't have.
Jihoon's hand shook, his stick scraping the floor.
His sister's voice from the plaza still hurt him, and his tears glistened in the dark.
"Is it… really her?" he whispered, his voice full of hope and dread.
Rin's fingers tightened around the recorder.
Her cynicism fought with a hint of longing she hated herself for feeling.
"It's a trick," she said, her voice sharper than she intended.
She shoved the device into her pocket, her hands trembling despite her determination.
"Mimics use voices. You know that."
But the words sounded hollow, a lie to herself as much as to them.
Jisoo's jaw tightened, her silence heavy, and Jihoon looked away, his shoulders slumping.
The stick felt useless in his grip.
The clicking sound grew louder—mimics, drawn by the recorder's sound, their rhythm sharp and deliberate, closing in.
"Move," Rin hissed, standing up.
She raised her pipe and led them past rusted turnstiles, their metal bars twisted like skeletal fingers.
The tunnel narrowed, the walls closing in.
The air was colder and wetter, pressing against their skin.
The graffiti changed—"AMPLIFY US" was scrawled over faded subway ads.
The words overlapped and looked frantic, as if written in a panic.
A flyer fluttered on the ground, half-torn.
Its bold text caught Rin's eye: "ECHO PROJECT, VOICE OF TOMORROW."
She gasped.
She'd hacked their servers years ago, a job she thought was over.
She remembered fragments of code about voice amplification that she'd dismissed as just corporate talk.
Her past was catching up to her, like a noose tightening around her neck.
She tore the flyer down, stuffing it into her jacket beside the recorder.
Her fingers brushed the sketchbook, a reflex to draw, to steady herself—but there was no time.
A mimic buzzed from the dark—"Rin…"—its voice slithering through the tunnel, closer now.
Its pale form crawled along the ceiling, a grotesque shape.
Its pale eyes gleamed like wet glass, and veins pulsed beneath its sagging skin.
Jisoo swung her knife, slicing its arm with a wet tear.
Black blood sprayed the tiles, but it dropped down, its claws grazing Jihoon's shoulder and tearing his hoodie.
He yelped, stumbling back, his stick clattering uselessly.
Rin cracked the mimic's skull with her pipe.
The impact jarred her arm, and blood splattered her boots.
Her breath was ragged.
The mimic collapsed, its buzzing fading, but its eyes stayed fixed on her, unblinking, a silent accusation that made her skin crawl.
Jihoon clutched his shoulder.
There was no blood, but he was shaking, tears glistening as he whispered, "Why us?"
His voice broke, raw and small, a question that cut deeper than the mimics' claws.
Rin's chest tightened.
Hana's voice, Jihoon's sister, the recorder—they weren't random.
She wanted to snap at him, to hide her own fear under a tough attitude, but his trembling hand, so like Hana's when she'd last held it, stopped her.
Jisoo steadied him, her good hand firm on his arm.
Her voice was low but fierce. "We're alive. That's why."
Her determination cut through the dark, but her eyes met Rin's, and they both shared a flicker of doubt.
Just surviving wasn't enough, not when the mimics knew their names.
Rin's fingers brushed the recorder in her pocket.
Hana's voice—"Find me…"—was a ghost she couldn't trust, a lure or a plea she couldn't understand.
The humming sound roared louder, and the tunnel walls shook.
Dust fell from the ceiling like ash.
Another buzz—"Jihoon…"—came from deeper in the dark, mixed with static.
More clicking sounds joined it, a chorus closing in.
Rin's jaw tightened, her cynicism hardening into resolve.
They weren't just hiding in this tunnel—they were being herded, drawn deeper by something that wanted them alive, wanted their voices.
She led them forward, pipe raised.
The graffiti's "LISTEN" burned into her mind.
Whatever ECHO was, it wasn't just a lab experiment—it was a trap, and they were walking right into it.