Mara didn’t know where to start.
There was no map to the resistance. No guidebook. Just whispers in the dark and the graffiti symbols that shimmered like secret runes beneath the grime of the tunnels. A triangle. A strike through an eye. Sometimes a phoenix scratched into tile with a nail. Most people ignored them. Mara didn’t.
She walked.
And walked.
Every step echoing like a question through the silence of the underworld.
She scavenged food from sealed vending machines in dead stations, water from rusting maintenance valves. Sometimes, in the dark, she’d hear the scraping of something watching—not rats, not ferals, something smarter. She never spoke unless she had to. Words were currency now. And she was bankrupt.
The days bled into each other. The only light came from her hand-cranked flashlight and the occasional flicker of power from an old emergency generator. Her breath fogged in the colder tunnels. Her boots shredded at the soles. But she pressed on, driven by the one thing she still believed in: that there had to be someone fighting back.
She was too stubborn to accept that the world was dead.
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