The narrow corridor seemed to stretch endlessly.
The creature's sounds faded behind them, muffled by thick walls and the maze of pipes and concrete.
But Elias did not dare relax.
Experience had taught him that true death came precisely in moments of carelessness.
Grimm and Ash pressed forward, noses close to the ground, alert to every noise, every change in scent.
Morrow, still unconscious, grew heavier on Elias's shoulders.
Yet he never stopped.
Every step was a reminder that survival demanded motion.
And blind faith that somewhere ahead, there was still light.
---
Hours — or minutes? — passed.
Time had lost all meaning underground.
When they finally spotted an opening ahead, Elias could hardly believe it.
Grimm barked once, short and controlled.
Ash stopped and looked back at Elias, waiting for his signal.
Elias picked up his pace.
The opening led to a rusted metal staircase, ascending upward.
Far above, a sliver of natural light shone.
Sunlight.
Fresh air.
Freedom.
A bitter smile crossed Elias's lips.
There was still hope, after all.
---
With one final effort, he climbed the stairs.
He hoisted Morrow up awkwardly, while Grimm and Ash climbed ahead like shadows.
Pushing open the final iron hatch, Elias emerged onto a barren, ruined field.
The sky was gray, but even the devastated world seemed welcoming compared to the horrors below.
The air, though dry and tainted, filled his lungs like salvation.
He dropped to his knees for a moment, breathing deeply.
Alive.
Still alive.
---
Not far away, on a rocky rise, Elias spotted what he had hoped for.
Three vehicles parked.
Armed men.
A neutral New Order flag fluttering discreetly from one of the trucks.
The extraction point.
The payment.
Elias knew he had to move quickly.
The creature could still find a way up.
Other dangers could still emerge.
Survival demanded swift delivery — and an even swifter departure.
---
Grimm and Ash escorted Elias toward the vehicles, alert, sniffing the wind.
As they approached, two men stepped out from behind a reinforced truck.
Weapons in hand, but pointed low.
They recognized him immediately.
"Thorne," said the taller of the two, a sunburned, wiry man. "Figured you wouldn't make it out."
Elias simply nodded.
Few words needed.
He displayed Morrow, still unconscious, cradled in his arms.
The wiry man whistled, impressed.
"He's alive?"
"Enough," Elias replied, lowering the scientist gently onto the ground.
The second man approached, quickly checking Morrow's vital signs.
He gave a short nod.
"Job's done."
"Payment?" Elias asked, wasting no time.
The first man smiled, nodding toward a small trailer hitched to one of the vehicles.
"Everything as agreed."
"Show me."
---
Inside the trailer, stacked crates.
Ammunition.
Clean water.
Air filters.
Spare parts for vehicles.
Canned food.
And valuable medicine — antibiotics, painkillers, suture kits.
Enough to keep Elias and his dogs alive for months.
Or longer, if rationed carefully.
He inspected the cargo swiftly.
Everything seemed in order.
"Transaction complete," said the man, extending a hand.
Elias didn't shake it.
He simply turned away, already moving to secure the supplies to the hidden motorcycle he had stashed nearby.
Grimm and Ash helped, trained to carry small gear in customized harnesses.
Efficiency was survival.
---
When the last package was secured, Elias mounted the bike, engine rumbling to life.
He spared one last glance at the New Order men.
To them, he was just another tool.
A useful ghost in a broken world.
Nothing more.
No anger.
No respect.
Just emptiness.
With a brief nod, he gunned the engine, kicking up dust as he sped away into the wasteland.
---
The journey back to his hideout was brutal.
Hours of riding across forgotten trails, crumbling ruins of ancient highways, through valleys swallowed by dust and silence.
He stopped only to water the dogs and tighten the gear.
Never resting more than absolutely necessary.
Distance was his greatest protection.
Isolation, his strongest armor.
---
By the time he reached the mountainous region he called home, night had already begun to fall.
He navigated secret paths, crossing ravines and cliffs protected by hidden traps — improvised explosives, concealed spikes, tripwire alarms.
His sanctuary remained untouched.
An old mining facility, retrofitted and camouflaged, shielded from the eyes of the desperate and the cruel.
The house of survival.
The house of solitude.
---
Inside, Elias worked methodically.
Stocked the supplies.
Checked weapons.
Tended to minor wounds.
Fed Grimm and Ash, who ate quietly, exhausted.
Only then, with a full stomach and aching muscles, did he allow himself to sit in the battered metal chair that served as his throne.
He lit a hand-rolled cigarette, inhaling deeply.
The silence of the hideout was complete.
Here, he was not hunted.
Here, he simply existed.
Not as a mercenary.
Not as a weapon.
But as a man trying to survive in a world that had given up on itself.
---
His gaze drifted to the old radio in the corner.
The device that would, before long, broadcast a new mission.
A new call to arms.
It was an endless cycle.
Serve.
Survive.
Forget.
Repeat.
---
Elias closed his eyes for a moment.
He thought of Morrow.
Of the beast that almost killed them.
Of the project that had rendered him immortal centuries ago.
How many horrors still slumbered in this world?
How many wounds would never heal?
He didn't know.
Perhaps he never would.
But one thing was certain:
As long as the world needed ghosts like him, Elias Thorne would not rest.
And the next mission was already stirring in the air.
Even before the radio crackled.
Even before the call came.
He could feel it.
Death would never leave him in peace.
Never.
---
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