The subway tunnels were cold, wet, and full of ghosts.
Nice crouched behind a collapsed wall of tile and steel, pistol in hand, flashlight off. He'd dropped below the city hours ago, climbing down a narrow maintenance shaft to escape the echo of gunfire and screams. The hospital was still fresh in his head—his brother's voice, the smell of blood and meat. The kind of memory that stuck to your bones.
Now he was deep beneath Midtown, boots soaking in ankle-deep water, surrounded by shadow thick as tar.
The silence was heavy.
Then—footsteps.
Not Swarm.
He could tell by the pattern: too careful, too human. Whoever they were, they were armed and cautious. He rose slowly from behind the rubble, keeping his weapon low, but ready.
That's when he saw her.
Mara Kingsley moved with soldier's precision. Every step deliberate. She looked mid-thirties, with a lean but muscular build that came from experience, not workouts. Her deep brown skin gleamed slightly under the dull yellow light of her headlamp. Her close-cropped curls hugged her head like a helmet. Tactical armor was layered across her chest and thighs—worn, patched, clearly scavenged, but functional. She held an assault rifle against her shoulder like she was born with it there.
Her eyes locked on him.
Behind her stumbled a lanky figure, arms full of tangled cables and a beat-up laptop strapped to his chest.
Ezra Delano, maybe nineteen, skin pale from too many days underground. A mop of curly black hair stuck out beneath a set of cracked goggles. His jacket looked like it was stitched from old hoodie sleeves and backpack straps. He was tall, awkward, and carried the energy of a kid who used to spend more time gaming than talking to people.
"Whoa," Ezra said, stopping behind Mara. "Uh, Mara? We've got a dude. And a good-looking one."
Nice didn't move. "Not looking for trouble."
"Gun down. Hands up," Mara said without blinking.
He raised one hand slightly, but didn't drop the pistol. "Only thing I've pointed this at lately doesn't talk back."
Her eyes flicked over him. Head to toe. Then back to his face. "Name."
"Nice."
Ezra blinked. "Wait, seriously?"
"It is now."
Mara didn't lower the rifle, but her stance eased slightly. "You alone?"
"Yeah," he said, quieter. "I wasn't. Not anymore."
Something in the way he said it gave her pause.
A beat passed. Then she nodded, quick and short. "Tunnel's covered. You're lucky we found you before something else did."
"Lucky's not a word I've heard in a while," Nice replied.
He stepped into the beam of her light. Mara didn't flinch, but Ezra tilted his head.
Now that they could see him clearly, he saw the moment they registered the full picture.
Nice was tall—over six feet—and built like someone who'd survived by running, fighting, and climbing through hell. His dark brown skin had streaks of grime and blood, but underneath, smooth and clear. High cheekbones, strong jaw, sharp eyes that never stayed still. His clothes were tactical but cobbled together: armored vest, fitted black hoodie, worn jeans with leather straps along the thighs, and a survival knife strapped to his leg. His short black hair was cut clean, and even now—haunted, tired, and bloodstained—he looked like the kind of man you noticed.
Ezra grinned. "Definitely not a Swarm. They don't smirk like that."
"Shut up," Mara muttered, motioning for Nice to follow. "Let's move."
They walked in silence for several minutes, deeper into the tunnels. The further in they went, the more the noise of the surface faded away. Eventually, they reached a reinforced chamber lit by lanterns, candles, and the occasional flickering monitor. Scrap metal and overturned vending machines formed barricades, blocking off exits. Hand-painted signs marked safe zones and storage areas. A chalkboard near the center listed patrol rotations and food rations in thick chalk.
It wasn't much. But it was something.
Nice scanned the room quickly, cataloging exits, weapons, body language.
There were four more survivors here.
Dr. Hallen Reyes stood at a metal table under a hanging bulb. He was in his early fifties, with streaks of gray in his thick black hair and a trimmed beard. His eyes were sharp behind cracked glasses. He wore a stained lab coat over a dark sweater, sleeves rolled up, hands covered in latex gloves. He was stitching something—or someone—with the calm focus of a man who'd seen too much to flinch anymore.
To the side sat Cleo, wrapped in a long dark coat, legs crossed, posture relaxed but unreadable. She looked mid-thirties, with long braids draped over her shoulder and copper-toned skin that almost glowed in the candlelight. Her eyes met Nice's the second he entered, and didn't move. They weren't suspicious. They weren't afraid. They were just watching.
The remaining two were a tall man in a red flannel shirt with a sawed-off shotgun leaning against his knee, and a girl no older than sixteen with curly blonde hair tied back into a knot, wearing a hoodie three sizes too big.
They all turned as Mara entered.
"New guy," she said.
"Damn," the teen said, grinning. "You find him or build him?"
Nice cracked a smile. "Not the weirdest welcome I've had."
Mara waved him forward. "Name's Nice. Came up from the hospital sector. He's alone. Says he's not infected."
Reyes looked up. "He came from the surface?"
"Yeah," Nice said. "North end. Swarm's thick up there. Nursery zone."
The name changed the room.
Cleo's voice was the first to cut through it. Soft, steady. "You came from the nursery?"
Nice nodded. "I saw what they made. What they're doing to people."
Ezra swallowed hard. "Nursery's a myth."
"No," Nice said. "It's real."
He looked over the room. "And if we don't stop them… we're all just ingredients."
Reyes stepped forward. "Pupils."
Nice didn't flinch. "They got my brother. I shot him. No twitch. No bleedback. I know what to look for."
Reyes scanned him anyway, shining a small penlight into his eyes. After a pause, he nodded.
"He's clean. Shaken, but clean."
Cleo tilted her head slightly. "You shouldn't be alive. Most don't make it out of those places."
Nice met her gaze. "I'm not most."
The flannel man chuckled. "I like him."
Ezra raised a brow. "You like anyone who hasn't tried to eat your face lately."
Reyes ignored them, turning to Mara. "We could use another fighter. Someone who's seen the inside of their territory."
"He's in," Mara said before Nice could speak. "One chance."
Nice nodded. "One's all I need."
Ezra stepped closer, peering at him. "So… you know about their tech? Like, how they think? What they're building?"
Nice hesitated. "Not yet. But I know they're getting smarter."
He glanced toward the camp's makeshift map—an old subway layout covered in swarm symbols and patrol paths.
"They're not just moving randomly. They're testing us. Watching. Recording."
Cleo's eyes narrowed, like she already knew.
Reyes stepped back. "Then you're not just another survivor. You're intel."
Nice shrugged. "I'm still alive. That's gotta count for something."