The room was dim, lit only by a single flickering bulb swaying gently from the low ceiling. Maps, yellowed and curling at the edges, plastered every wall — faded outlines of the country as it once was, dotted with red marks and scribbled notes. Three figures sat around a battered metal table, their shadows stretching long and sharp across the concrete floor.
They spoke in hushed voices, the weight of their words pressing down on the stale air. Every sentence was a careful step across the minefield of the future — how to take back what had been stolen, how to bring freedom back into a world that had forgotten it.
In the far corner, against the back wall, a shape stirred — a figure with their hands pressed tight over their eyes, knuckles white, as if shielding themselves from a sight they couldn’t bear to witness. The movement was slow, almost mechanical, like they were trying to hold back a flood.
Beyond them loomed the bunker’s heavy steel door. Around its edges, a faint yellow glow seeped into the darkness, pulsing ever so slightly — as though something outside was alive, waiting, pressing against the threshold. The light haloed the door like a warning and a promise all at once, a thin barrier between the known and the unknown.
One of the fighters glanced at it, then back to the others.
“It’s coming,” they said quietly. “And when it does, we have to be ready.”
The glow brightened — just enough to make the maps seem to twitch on the walls.
No comments:
Post a Comment