The wolves' distorted forms twisting unnaturally as they pursue. Their glowing, ember-like eyes burn through the dimness, and the sound of their claws scraped against the concrete with a grating screech. The sound was piercing and raw, setting my teeth on edge.
"Keep moving!" the man barks sharply, though I can hear the exhaustion in his voice. His eyes dart ahead, and he spots something in the distance. "Over there! Subway entrance!"
I follow his gaze to the run-down subway station ahead. The signs are faded and rusted, graffiti scrawled across every surface. The stairs leading down are crumbling, and the faint smell of dampness rises to meet us.
"Move! We can lose them in there!" he commands, his voice cutting through the chaos.
We dart down the stairs as the wolves close in. Their claws tear into the concrete above, sending shards tumbling around us. My heart pounds in my chest as we reach the terminal. It's cracked tiles, broken benches, and empty tracks stretching into darkness. There's no sign of a train, just silence and decay.
"We're trapped!" Zack pants, his voice frantic as he glances around.
"No, we're not." I spot a rusted gate leading to a maintenance tunnel and point. "Through there!"
We scramble toward the gate, wrenching it open with a screech that makes my teeth grind. Just as we slip through, one of the wolves leaps into the terminal. Its snarls echo off the walls, shaking me to my core. The tall man slams the gate shut, throwing his weight against it as the wolf lunges. Its teeth snap mere inches from the bars, and for a terrifying moment, it looks like the thin metal might give way.
But then, with a howl, the wolf retreats into the shadows, its glowing eyes lingering as if to remind us this isn't over.
We collapse against the tunnel walls, gasping for air. Zack leans against the damp brick, shaking his head. "That was way too close."
My chest heaves as I try to catch my breath. "What the hell were those things?" I snap, frustration bleeding into my voice. "Why are we even here? What's going on?"
"Wolves," the man answers, his tone low and steady. "But not like any wolves I've ever seen."
He brushes the dust off his uniform, taking a moment to compose himself before speaking again. "Thanks for the help back there. I'm Isaiah." He places a hand on the boy's shoulder, but the kid pulls away slightly.
"I'm Christopher, but you can call me Chris," the boy says quickly, like he's trying to keep some control. "This is my brother, Isaiah."
"Sergeant Isaiah Matthews. I'm not his brother... although we have the same last name." Isaiah mutters, shaking my hand.
Chris looks at him, his expression conflicted. "You are," he insists softly, though his voice wavers. "You just… don't remember yet."
Isaiah's brow furrows, like he's trying to piece together a puzzle. "Chris's father… Our father," he corrects himself, though the words seem heavy. "He didn't make it."
Chris looks away, his jaw clenched tightly. "He told us to run," he murmurs, his voice barely audible.
Isaiah nods, the weight of his own memories—fragmented and painful—visible in his eyes. He shifts his attention to Zack and me. "We owe you our lives," he says, his voice steady, though I can sense the turmoil beneath the surface.
Zack exhales sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. "Not sure I was much help. Sorry 'bout your pops."
Silence settles over us, thick and uncomfortable, until Zack finally breaks it. "So, uh, Isaiah. That uniform's American army, right?" He nods toward Isaiah's tattered fatigues.
Isaiah glances down at himself, as if only now remembering what he's wearing. "Yeah," he says slowly. "I remember… enlisting. Going to war." His voice tightens, and his expression shifts, a shadow falling over his face. A deep, hollow sorrow lingers in his eyes. "But nothing before that."
I watch him closely. Zack, Chris, even Isaiah—they all have pieces of something. Fragments of a past to cling to, no matter how broken.
But me?
Nothing.
Not a single face, a name, a fleeting glimpse of who I used to be. Just a blank void where my past should be.
I clutch the ruby ring on my finger, feeling the faint warmth pulsing against my skin.
"We're not safe yet. We should keep moving."
As we round the corner, my eyes lock onto the crumpled figure sprawled across the pavement, half-buried in frost. Blood, frozen yet unnervingly bright red, stains the ground around him. The ice clings to his uniform—dark blue, the badge barely visible beneath the frost. His face… or what's left of it… is stripped down to bone, frozen blood clinging to what remains of his shattered features. His body is stiff, twisted at an unnatural angle, one hand still clutching a gun, the other locked around the strap of a tattered backpack.
I exhale, slow and steady. No spike of panic, no wave of nausea. Just a cold observation.
I glance back at the others. Zack's lip curls in disgust, his eyes darting away from the corpse like he's trying not to look too long. Isaiah remains unfazed, his gaze scanning the scene with the same dull intensity he always carries. Chris… he won't even look. His hands clamp over his eyes as if shutting them tight enough will erase the sight from existence.
And me? I feel... fine.
Not just fine—calm. A detached stillness settles over me, so unlike how I felt when I first woke up here. I should be disturbed by the way my mind accepts this so easily, but instead, I just acknowledge it. Like a simple fact. This is what it is.
The ring. It has to be the ring. Ever since I put it on, it's been keeping my emotions in check, the warmth of fire still burns in my heart. Is this its power? A side effect? I haven't even heard from Gilgamesh in a while.
I tighten my fingers into a fist.
What else is waiting for me ahead?
Ravens claw at his stiffened limbs, their beaks digging into flesh frozen solid. Their feathers blend into the shadows, making them seem like living pieces of the darkness itself.
Zack moves first, stepping forward with his sword raised. He swings, scattering the birds with a burst of flapping wings and shrill cries as they vanish into the shadows.
Zack stared at the dead officer, "Shit… poor guy."
The officer's hands are locked in a death grip—one clutching a backpack, the other wrapped around a handgun. His fingers are stiff, curled tight, but Isaiah steps forward, prying the weapon free. He turns it over in his hands, checking the chamber.
It makes sense for him to have it—he's a soldier. He'd know how to use it. I've never held a gun before… or at least, I don't think I have.
"There's a bullet missing," he mutters.
I step closer, then crouch down and pry the bag from his rigid grasp. The ice makes it difficult, his skin peeling away like brittle paper. I swallow down the nausea rising in my throat and force the zipper open.
Nothing, there's nothing but school books and scattered papers inside. No food, no supplies—just an empty cardboard box left behind. I let it drop, leaving it there in the cold.
"Anyone else seeing this?" I ask, dropping my backpack back onto the corpse.