“Weeping Angels…” Noah muttered under his breath.

  “Who?” Gaudemunda whispered, her gaze fixed on the bridge.

  “Step away from the window,” he hissed, taking a slow step backward.

  Sensing the tension in his voice, the woman hesitated, then followed his lead.

  “Why are we whispering?”

  “Have you ever seen the TV series Doctor Who?” Noah asked.

  “I think I’ve heard of it,” she frowned. “A Mexican soap opera?”

  “...something like that…” he mumbled. “In the series, the characters ran into similar statues. They were called Weeping Angels. They could move—but only when no one was looking. Kind of like Schr?dinger’s cat: alive and dead at the same time, at least until someone checks.”

  As he spoke, Noah pointed the tablet’s flashlight down the tunnel, checking for any uninvited company.

  “So those statues… they’re alive?” Gaudemunda asked in disbelief.

  “I don’t know. But they look an awful lot like them.”

  “Are they dangerous?”

  “If they’re the real thing, then yes. Extremely.”

  “Angels… from a TV show?” she said, still incredulous.

  Noah shrugged.

  Suddenly, he felt ridiculous for panicking. Doctor Who was science fiction, after all. Its monsters—like the Weeping Angels—were fictional creations. The odds that something from that show was real were practically zero. These statues just happened to look like them, that’s all.

  He stepped back to the window for a closer look. The statues still stood on either side of the stone bridge, unmoving. Yet a cold unease slithered down his spine. The resemblance was uncanny—too precise to be a coincidence.

  Maybe the Admins had decided to amuse themselves by recreating a scene from television? If so, what else had they copied? The creatures’ behavior?

  “So what do we do now?” Gaudemunda whispered.

  Noah glanced at the time on his tablet.

  “Two hours left. Let’s check the rest of this tunnel. If there’s a window, there must be an exit,” he said. Then he caught her by the wrist. “And please—no more sprinting off like you're on fire, okay? At least not until we’ve seen what’s ahead.”

  Gaudemunda blushed slightly, remembering her earlier dash toward the light. Meeting his eyes, she gave a silent nod. Noah nodded back and released her hand.

  * * *

  They soon reached a narrow stairway carved into the tunnel wall. The tunnel itself continued onward into thick darkness. Out of habit, Noah followed it a few meters further, just to make sure it didn’t end in a dead end—then turned back. The bridge, infested by “angels,” pulled at him like a magnet. And somewhere beyond it, the pale light glowed stronger—much brighter than their lamps or the tablet’s flash. He had to see what it was.

  Descending the stairs, they found themselves in the dimly lit atrium with several dark exits and one wide gateway, leading into the brightly lit courtyard, surrounded by a brick wall. They both slipped through the gate and crept along the brick wall until they reached the end of it. Noah glanced back and froze for a moment. The rock face behind them was carved like the fa?ade of an enormous temple. The “windows” were nothing but shallow shapes etched into the stone, except for the single real opening they had peered through. Even the ornate gate was fake. Huge stone columns were cracked, and one snapped in half. Noah suspected this wasn’t built here. It was copied from somewhere else, because in this place, there was nothing to damage or whittle down the stone.

  Silence ruled the “temple” courtyard. Noah strained his ears, hoping to catch the faintest movement on the bridge. Then he remembered—Weeping Angels made no sound at all.

  They were perfect hunters, and…

  “Oh, crap,” he muttered, the realization hitting him like a punch.

  If he had seen them, it meant they knew exactly where he was.

  Hiding was pointless. If those creatures were alive, the hunt had begun ten minutes ago.

  Noah stepped out from behind the wall. Seeing nothing unusual, he moved toward the bridge. The first statues loomed into view, their faces calm, their hands folded in prayer. A few steps more, and the entire bridge stretched before him, with a silent and dead panorama beyond it.

  On a hill across the bridge stood the ruins of a massive fortress, stretching its gray towers up into the darkness. Its torn flags drooped lifelessly along the walls. A broad stairway led up the slope, flanked by rows of crumbling buildings. No lights burned in any of the windows. No human voices and no wind. The whole place was dead—except for a single white light blazing from the topmost tower, like a false hope for lost souls.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  The angels still hadn’t moved. Noah wasn’t sure if their number had changed—but he was about to find out.

  “Gaudemunda, can you stay here and watch while I cross?” he asked.

  “All right,” she said, a hint of fear in her voice.

  Without waiting, Noah stepped onto the bridge. A chill crawled down his back. Up close, the statues were disturbingly detailed. Cracked wings, chipped fingers, eroded faces—but still too lifelike. Dust gathered around their sandaled feet. If they were alive, they hadn’t moved in a very long time.

  Still, he refused to drop his guard. Every statue remained in the corner of his vision as he advanced, and Gaudemunda’s eyes covered the rest.

  When he reached the far side, he turned and exhaled in relief. She was still there, gazing around the underground city with calm curiosity. The angels hadn’t moved an inch. The longer he watched, the more convinced he became: this was just the Admins’ idea of a joke. To spice up the boredom of the underworld.

  Ha-ha. Very funny...

  He waved for Gaudemunda to cross.

  * * *

  Climbing the stairs up the hill, Noah was finally sure of it—the angels were harmless props. They hadn’t budged, even when both of them turned their backs completely.

  He briefly considered filming them for his YouTube channel but quickly dismissed the idea. If viewers recognized the statues, no one would believe his videos were real. They’d assume it was all CGI.

  The narrow street wound upward toward the fortress, ending in a colossal gate. Like everything else here, it looked fake—stone imitating wood, carved hinges pretending to function. At the bottom corner yawned a smaller black opening, just wide enough for one person to slip through. Two more “angels” stood on either side: one missing its head, the other still frozen mid-trumpet, seemingly unconcerned by its decapitated neighbor.

  Passing through the narrow entrance, they emerged into a vast circular courtyard. Noah stopped, amazed. From the inside, the fortress walls looked warped, almost melted—like a honeycomb of hardened lava. Hundreds of small windows had been carved into it at random heights and angles, giving the place the look of a dead anthill.

  At the far end stood a white tower, its perfect geometry clashing with the organic chaos around it. The two styles seemed locked in a slow war, one trying to consume the other.

  Noah tilted his head back, squinting at the light shining from the tower’s peak. He still couldn’t see its source.

  “There,” Gaudemunda suddenly whispered, breaking the silence. “There’s another door…”

  A white staircase spiraled up toward the tower wall, ending in an arched frame—and, yes, a set of familiar black doors.

  They had found the next gate.

  Noah checked the time. He could risk it. Unlock the doors, take a look, then run back to safety before his charge runs low. The timestamps on YouTube weren’t exactly reliable, and he had no intention of testing the Admins’ mercy. He doubted they had any.

  Reaching the doors, he tried the handle first— and was rewarded with a sharp, freezing sting. Good. That meant they were real. He opened the tablet and sacrificed a point. Then he turned the handle.

  As always, the rusty hinges screamed. Gaudemunda lifted her lamp, and this time they were met not by darkness but soft, even light.

  Beyond the doors stretched a wide circular chamber, lit from above by the same pale glow that crowned the tower. To their surprise, the tower seemed to have only one floor.

  What a waste of space, Noah thought as he stepped inside.

  The room was full of furniture—far more than he expected. Tall bookcases lined the curved walls, crammed with tomes of every size and color, rolls of parchment, and even clay tablets.

  Tables and chairs stood ready for long-departed readers. A few candles drooped in their holders, their wax cold but intact. A faint layer of dust coated the polished wood, suggesting the place had been abandoned not long ago.

  On the far side stood another arched passage—perhaps leading deeper into the tower.

  Noah moved further in and felt a soft rug underfoot. Black and crimson patterns covered the floor, leading to the centerpiece of the room: a wooden tripod holding a big globe. He recognized Africa immediately, then Europe. It was the old, familiar Earth.

  A faint metallic clink made him glance at Gaudemunda. She had set the lamp down and was peering curiously at a nearby shelf.

  Noah looked up again, searching for stairs or ladders leading to the light above—but the walls were perfectly smooth. No openings, no paths upward.

  He approached the globe and touched Italy with his fingertip. It turned easily, as though freshly oiled. Something inside clicked faintly—like hidden gears turning.

  Then another click echoed. This time from above.

  Followed by a second one, from behind.

  The black doors groaned and slammed shut.

  Click clank!

  Metal bars slid from hidden recesses, driving spikes into the floor and sealing the exit.

  Noah and Gaudemunda stared at each other, stunned and terrified.