The train rattled through the tunnel like a wounded animal, its wheels shrieking against rusted rails. The lights inside the cars flickered weakly, long shadows stretching across the packed interior. No one spoke. People stood shoulder to shoulder, gripping poles, seatbacks, each other—faces hollow, eyes fixed forward as if looking anywhere else might invite disaster.

  Rhys sat rigid, one arm draped over the back of the bench in front of him. Amélia sat close, knees drawn in, fingers clenched in her vest. Elias leaned forward between them, watching the aisle.

  That was when the old woman stood.

  She moved slowly, deliberately, her steps soft against the metal floor. Each sway of the train seemed to guide her, as if she knew exactly when to step. People parted without thinking, making space for her, murmuring apologies as she passed. She smiled gently, nodding to a man who stepped aside for her.

  Rhys noticed first.

  His eyes followed her as she walked past rows of exhausted faces. Something about her movement bothered him—not hurried, not afraid. Purposeful.

  “Do you see her?” he murmured.

  Amélia glanced up. “Who?”

  “The woman. The old one.”

  She turned just in time to see the woman reach the front of the car, stopping before the reinforced glass door that separated the passengers from the driver’s cabin.

  The woman leaned closer to the glass.

  At first, it looked like she was simply speaking—lips moving softly, one hand resting against the door. The driver glanced at her, confused, shaking his head. Whatever she said next made him freeze.

  His mouth fell open.

  He stared at her as if she had spoken a language he was never meant to hear.

  Amélia felt her chest tighten. “Guys… something’s wrong.”

  The woman’s smile widened.

  Too wide.

  Her jaw stretched unnaturally, the skin around her mouth pulling tight, trembling, as if struggling to contain something underneath. Her eyes darkened, glassy and empty, fixed on the driver.

  Then she moved.

  The glass door exploded inward as her hand slammed through it, fingers wrapping around the driver’s throat. In one impossible motion, she wrenched him free from his seat and hurled him backward.

  The driver’s scream was cut short as his body vanished out the shattered side window, swallowed by the rushing darkness of the tunnel.

  For half a second, there was silence.

  Then the train erupted.

  Screams tore through the car. People shoved, stumbled, fell over seats. Someone cried out for their child. Another voice sobbed uncontrollably. The train lurched as the controls went unattended, its speed fluctuating wildly.

  Amélia stood abruptly. “STOP!”

  The woman stepped back into the aisle.

  Her arm… wasn’t right.

  Black matter oozed from her sleeve, thick and glistening like liquid tar, crawling over her forearm. It moved with a life of its own, flowing, folding, reshaping—hardening into something long and angular. Something unmistakable.

  A weapon.

  Amélia’s breath caught in her throat. “What… what is that?”

  The woman turned toward the crowd.

  Toward them.

  Rhys didn’t hesitate.

  He launched himself forward, sprinting down the aisle as the first shot rang out. The sound was deafening in the enclosed car, a violent crack that sent sparks spraying from the ceiling. The recoil of the train jolted him sideways, but he kept moving.

  He slammed into the woman just as the weapon finished forming.

  They crashed into a row of seats, metal screeching as bodies collided. The weapon clattered away across the floor, skidding under a bench.

  But another shot fired.

  Rhys screamed.

  He collapsed, clutching his right shoulder as blood spilled between his fingers, soaking into his sleeve. The smell of scorched fabric and iron filled the air.

  “RHYS!” Amélia ran.

  More screams erupted as people realized they weren’t alone.

  Across the car, a man doubled over, his skin rippling unnaturally. Plates split through his face, peeling back as something dark and metallic pushed outward. Another figure stood rigid, spine arching as black shapes surfaced beneath their skin.

  The crowd panicked completely now—people trampling each other, clawing for exits that didn’t exist.

  Amélia dropped to her knees beside Rhys, dragging him behind a row of seats as another shot tore through the space they’d just occupied.

  She pressed her hands against his wound, blood warm and slick. “Stay with me. Stay with me, please.”

  “I’m fine,” Rhys gritted through clenched teeth, though his face was pale. “Just—just stop them.”

  Elias slid in beside them, shaking, his eyes wide with horror. “What are they…? Amélia, what are they?!”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I don’t know.”

  The train screamed onward into the dark, filled with gunfire, metal tearing, and human terror—while something inhuman hunted among them.

  Gunfire tore through the car in violent bursts, the sound bouncing off metal walls until it was impossible to tell where it came from. Bullets shredded seats, sparks erupted from handrails, windows shattered inward. People screamed—high, broken sounds that cut straight through the chaos. A child cried somewhere near the back, calling for their mother over and over until the sound was swallowed by another shot.

  Someone fell against Amélia, blood already soaking their coat. Another body collapsed face-first into the aisle, unmoving. Panic turned the crowd into a tide—pushing, clawing, trampling—nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

  “DOWN!” someone screamed.

  Too late.

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  A burst of fire ripped through the middle of the car. Two people dropped instantly.

  Amélia felt something inside her snap.

  Not fear.

  Not hesitation.

  Rage.

  Her eyes locked onto the weapon skidding across the floor—the one the old woman had dropped. She moved before she thought, before doubt could catch her. She dove, fingers closing around cold metal just as another shot punched into the floor inches from her head.

  She came up firing.

  The recoil slammed into her shoulder, but she welcomed the pain. She aimed down the aisle and pulled the trigger again, and again—each shot sharp, controlled. One of the fake humans jerked backward, its torso snapping as the impact threw it into the wall. Black fluid splattered across the ceiling.

  People screamed louder as she advanced.

  Amélia slid behind a row of seats as return fire chewed through the space she’d just crossed. She popped up on one knee, fired twice, then rolled forward as the train lurched violently beneath her feet. She moved with cold precision, heart hammering, vision narrowed to targets and cover.

  This wasn’t panic.

  This was fury sharpened into focus.

  Behind her, Elias dragged Rhys by the vest, pulling him deeper between overturned seats. Rhys hissed in pain, blood dripping steadily from his shoulder, streaking the floor with each jolt of the train.

  “Stay with me,” Elias said through clenched teeth. His hands were slick with blood, his breath ragged. “Don’t you dare pass out.”

  Rhys forced a weak grin. “Not… planning to.”

  Another explosion of gunfire rocked the car. Elias glanced up—and froze.

  At the front of the train, beyond the shattered glass of the driver’s cabin, the tunnel ahead opened into darkness broken by shapes—too many shapes. Figures standing unnaturally still, waiting. A barricade of bodies and metal. A trap.

  “They led us here,” Elias whispered.

  The realization hit him like ice.

  He looked at the controls.

  Then at Rhys.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said, already moving.

  “Elias—!” Amélia shouted, firing over a seat as another inhuman figure rose from the crowd, its face splitting open.

  Elias didn’t stop.

  He vaulted into the driver’s cabin, boots slipping on broken glass. The control panel sparked wildly, warning lights flashing red. The driver’s seat was empty—blood smeared across it, the window beside it a jagged hole to nothingness.

  Elias slammed his hands onto the console.

  “I don’t know trains,” he muttered, voice shaking. “I don’t know trains, I don’t—”

  He yanked the brake lever.

  The world lurched.

  The train screamed as metal shrieked against metal. People were thrown forward, bodies slamming into poles, seats, each other. The lights flickered, then died completely as the train skidded violently, sparks spraying past the windows like fireworks in the dark.

  Amélia was thrown off her feet—but she rolled, came up firing.

  She advanced through the aisles as the train slowed, moving through smoke and screams like a ghost. Her shots were deliberate now. One target dropped. Then another. She slid across the floor, used an overturned bench as cover, leaned out just long enough to fire again.

  Her face was streaked with blood—some hers, some not. Her teeth were clenched so hard her jaw ached.

  She didn’t stop.

  Behind her, Rhys pressed himself against the wall, breathing hard, vision swimming. He watched her through the chaos—Amélia moving forward alone, weapon flashing, standing between them and the nightmare.

  Blood continued to pool beneath him.

  The train shuddered one last time, slowing to a grinding crawl as gunfire echoed through the darkness and the horror refused to end.

  The gunfire didn’t stop when Amélia fell.

  It happened fast—too fast for anyone to shout a warning. A shot punched through the seat beside her, the force splintering metal and wood, and another caught her across the side. She cried out, the sound sharp and raw, and her momentum broke. She hit the floor hard, the rifle skidding from her hands as pain tore through her ribs.

  “Amélia!”

  Rhys didn’t think. The pain in his shoulder screamed at him as he pushed up, vision blurring, but he was already moving—stumbling, half-running, half-falling down the aisle toward her.

  Another fake human stepped into view, its movements wrong, jerky, raising its weapon.

  Rhys threw himself forward.

  He collided with Amélia, dragging her behind the wreck of a seat just as shots tore through the space where they’d been. He curled over her instinctively, teeth clenched, breath shaking. Pain flared white-hot through his shoulder, but he didn’t let go.

  “Are you insane?” he shouted over the noise, pressing a hand against her side. His palm came away red. “What are you thinking?!”

  “I—” Amélia sucked in a breath, trying to push herself up, but her body betrayed her. “I had to—”

  “You had to stay alive!” Rhys snapped. His voice cracked, raw with something close to fear. “You don’t get to do that. Not alone.”

  For a second, the world narrowed for Amélia to just that—his arms around her, firm and real, shielding her despite the blood soaking his sleeve. Warmth bloomed in her chest, aching and terrible all at once. She hated herself for feeling it.

  Another scream echoed through the car.

  Elias.

  He came running down the aisle, eyes wide, breath ragged, a rifle clutched in trembling hands. He didn’t look brave. He looked terrified. But when the last fake human emerged from the smoke ahead—its silhouette framed by flickering emergency lights—Elias stopped running.

  He raised the rifle.

  His hands shook. His finger hesitated.

  Then he fired.

  The shot echoed like a hammer strike. The figure jerked violently, collapsing backward in a spray of dark fluid, twitching once before going still.

  Silence followed.

  Not peace—just the absence of gunfire.

  The train groaned as it finally came to a complete stop. Smoke drifted lazily through the car. Somewhere, someone sobbed openly. Another voice whispered a prayer. Children cried, thin and exhausted.

  People began to realize it was over.

  Elias lowered the rifle slowly, staring at it like he couldn’t believe what he’d done. His knees nearly buckled as the adrenaline drained away.

  Rhys exhaled shakily and finally loosened his grip on Amélia, though he still kept one arm around her to keep her upright.

  “You’re reckless,” he muttered, anger bleeding into exhaustion. “Both of you. Absolutely reckless.”

  Amélia gave a weak, breathless laugh that turned into a wince. “You came anyway.”

  “Yeah,” Rhys said, glaring down at her furious. “And I’d do it again. That’s the problem.”

  Elias staggered over to them, rubbing a hand through his hair, his face pale. “Are you two trying to get killed?” he snapped, voice breaking despite himself.

  Amélia looked up at him, still cradled against Rhys’s chest. “You stopped the train.”

  Elias swallowed hard. “Someone had to, idiots!”

  For a moment, the three of them just stayed there—breathing, bleeding, alive—while the survivors around them cried and clung to one another in the dim, flickering light.

  Amélia rested her head briefly against Rhys’s shoulder, just for a second. He didn’t pull away. He didn’t hold her tighter either.

  But he stayed.

  And for her, that was enough—for now.

  The silence didn’t last.

  It curdled.

  The train car was soaked in it—broken only by crying, by wet choking sounds, by the slow drip of blood onto the metal floor. Bodies lay twisted in the aisle and slumped against seats, their faces frozen in terror or surprise. The air smelled of iron, smoke, and something sour that made Rhys’s stomach turn.

  A child crawled out from beneath a seat.

  She couldn’t have been more than six. Her hands slipped in blood as she dragged herself forward, eyes wide and unfocused, calling softly.

  “Mama…?”

  She reached a body near the aisle, shaking it, small fingers pressing into a coat already stiffening. When the body didn’t respond, the child’s cry tore through the car—raw, animal, unbearable.

  Rhys clenched his jaw so hard it hurt.

  He looked around at the carnage, at the fake humans lying still now, their disguises ruined, their bodies wrong in ways he couldn’t yet explain. Rage boiled up, sudden and violent, drowning out the pain in his shoulder.

  “I hate them,” he said hoarsely. “I hate them. All of them. Schreitpanzer, machines—whatever they are. They walk in wearing our faces and do this.”

  His voice shook, not with fear, but with anger.

  “Whoevery or whatever is controlling those things, I'll make them pay one day!”

  Amélia tried to shift, sucking in a sharp breath as pain ripped through her side. Blood soaked through her clothes—two dark, spreading stains where the bullets had torn into her. Her face had gone pale, freckles standing out starkly against her skin.

  Rhys immediately steadied her. “Hey—don’t move. Don’t move.”

  “I’m fine,” she lied, teeth clenched.

  “No, you’re not,” Elias said sharply.

  He dropped to his knees in front of them, hands already moving. He tore his shirt over his head without hesitation, ripping the fabric into long strips with shaking strength.

  “Both of you—stop,” he snapped. “Don't leave me alone.”

  He pressed cloth hard against Amélia’s side. She gasped, fingers digging into the floor, but didn’t scream.

  “Two entry wounds,” Elias muttered, forcing himself to focus. “You’re bleeding a lot, but—stay with me. Stay still.”

  He bound her tightly, then turned to Rhys, wrapping his shoulder with equal urgency. Blood soaked through almost immediately.

  Elias swallowed. “You’re both idiots.”

  Rhys let out a breathless, humorless laugh. “You started the train.”

  “Yeah,” Elias shot back. “And you ran into gunfire with a hole in your shoulder. We’re even.”

  Around them, survivors sobbed openly now. Some knelt beside bodies, whispering names that would never be answered. Others stared blankly, rocking back and forth. No one celebrated. No one felt saved.

  Then—

  A sound echoed from outside the train.

  Metal scraping against concrete.

  Slow. Deliberate.

  The lights flickered again, plunging the car into near-darkness before stabilizing into a dim red glow. Shapes moved beyond the shattered tunnel entrance—figures pulling themselves free from rubble, limbs bending at wrong angles.

  A voice drifted in from the darkness.

  Not loud.

  Not angry.

  Calm. Curious.

  “Please,” it said gently. “Do not be afraid.”

  Several figures stepped forward, their silhouettes raising rifles as one.

  The survivors hadn’t noticed yet.

  But Rhys had.

  His blood ran cold as he tightened his grip on Amélia, eyes locked on the tunnel mouth.

  And outside the train, in the broken dark, something smiled.