Bishie Style SL: Salvage Station, Camp Syndicate: The Hunting Ground (Escape from Club Apophis, 26)

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STORYLINE: The silence that followed Hwan’s reveal was absolute, heavy, and cold.

Minjo’s hand trembled with the cold, analytical fury of intellectual whose entire framework had just been shattered. Her weapon stayed leveled at Hwan’s chest.

“You destroyed it,” she spat, the words tight. “Our plan. Our tech. Our only way to reach Kyra. You just... ended it.”

“I destroyed a beacon,” Hwan replied, his amber eyes flat and unfeeling. “You weren’t contacting your friend. You were ringing a dinner bell. Patrols will be here in minutes. You can stay...”

He turned his back on them, a profound act of dismissal, and stepped through the shimmering boundary of the Forbidden Zone.

“...or you can follow me to your friends.”

“Wait!” Echo cried.

Then came the sound. It began in the distance, a high-pitched, metallic shriek threading through the forest, -- a choir of knives being sharpened in the dark. It was getting closer.

Minjo lowered her weapon, fury instantly cooling to pure survival logic. “Everyone... pack light. Now.”

Ghost, the silent protector, was already moving. He grabbed a small Prepper’s wind-up generator, shoved a knife in his belt. As he crossed the veil, the faint blue light of his halo-gloves glitched, fizzled, and died. His digital voice went with it. Now he truly was mute.

The world turned gray. The air thickened instantly, pressing in with a physical weight, saturated with the smell of dust, rust, and long-dead carcasses.

“We don’t go over. We go under,” Hwan commanded, his voice a low gravel in the dead air. He motioned to the skeletal city ahead. “The Sisters patrol the streets. We take the tunnels.”

Hwan strode toward a wide service entrance. A quick, open route.

Ghost froze. He grabbed Minjo’s arm, his grip like a steel clamp.

He knew this from the Smart Chip map the main tunnels were always patrolled, often flooded. And Hwan himself, was a creature of the Zone, an eater of souls. He was leading them too calmly, too openly. Ghost trusted his own instincts more than a Jeoseung Saja.

Fifty yards away lay a forgotten manhole, rimmed with rust. Smaller. Deeper. Safer.

He shook his head at Hwan’s silhouette. Then, with the tip of his knife, he scratched two words in the dirt: Separate. Follow.

Minjo’s eyes flashed with understanding. This was one of Ghost's insights, another of his "mic drops" delivered in steel and dirt. He was betting their lives on the Underground Catacomb Map burned into his memory.

He wrenched the manhole cover aside. The metal screamed in the silence. He gestured, "Down. Now."

One by one, they slipped into the pitch-black. The cover sealed above them with a dull, final thud.

They’d vanished.

For five agonizing minutes, they moved cautiously in blind, suffocating silence. The only sound was the rhythmic drip... drip... drip... of water, echoing in the vast dark. Ghost felt his way along the cold stone walls, while his other hand held a lifeline to Echo. Every breath was a risk. Every step was calculated.

Then he stopped.

The tunnel was wrong. There was a sheer wall where a fork should be. The map in his head dissolved. The subtle turns, the new forks. The data was bad. He was lost.

He froze, one arm raised in warning. Doubt, a feeling he despised, flickered in his mind like static. He had failed them.

He had no choice. He pulled the generator from his belt and began to crank. The grinding noise was obscenely loud. The halo-gloves flared a weak, ghostly blue, casting their terrified faces in eerie light as he frantically tried to access the map file.

“Lost already, Ghost?”

The voice sliced through the dark, not twenty feet away.

Hwan stepped from a side tunnel, his amber eyes like twin suns in the void. He’d been waiting.

“Your choice was clever, Little Shinobi,” Hwan said evenly. “But this is my home. I carved these holes. I know where they all bleed.”

He tilted his head toward the damning blue glow. “Now snuff that light. You’re ringing the bell again.”

Ghost obeyed, his jaw tight. The light died, plunging them back into a darkness that felt heavier, more hostile. His gamble had failed. His insight was wrong.

They moved on. They had little choice. Hwan was now in the lead.

The tunnels grew narrower, the air moldy and old. A soft vibration hummed through the ground, a low-frequency thrum that they felt in their teeth, -- like the Zone itself was breathing.

Hwan stopped suddenly. He didn't lift a hand. He simply ceased. “Hold,” he breathed, the sound barely a whisper.

A stillness fell, heavier than the darkness.

“They’re close,” Hwan whispered. “The Sisters see like snakes—they hunt heat and motion. They smell power. And they feed on sight. Do not move. Do not bleed. And do not look, no matter what you hear.”

Above them, a wide sewer grate. Beyond it, gray daylight filtered through dead leaves.

A shadow moved across it. Something gliding, jointed and wrong. The rustle of heavy fabrics.

A procession.

Plague made a strangled sound, half-gasp, half-prayer. Ghost pressed a heavy hand to his shoulder: "Silence."

One of the Sisters paused directly above them.

Her habit, stiff with dried blood, brushed the grate. She sniffed the air, neck twitching like a bird. She could smell them. She could smell the residue of the generator, the faint, delicious trace of power from the device they’d just shut down.

Echo clenched her fists until her nails drew blood. Her need to do things right screamed inside her skull. Don’t look up. Don’t look up. Don’t....

The Sister lingered above, the click or rosary beads too close, too hungry.

Then, a metallic creak. The grate above them shifted.

A second later, something dark and slender slipped through the bars.

Metal scraped on stone, -- slow, deliberate.

The Nun was descending into the tunnel.

No one moved.

Echo bit her lip until she tasted blood. Minjo’s fingers hovered over her weapon but never twitched. Plague was trembling, his breath a ragged, silent scream.

Ghost didn’t look. He couldn't.

He drew his knife by feel alone, holding it low, angled for silence. The sharp steel of the blade caught the Nun's swirling light, reflecting it as a single, dull-red glint.

The thing crawled closer, its joints cracking, its robes whispering against the wet floor. Its breath, if it could be called that, came in ragged pulls, tasting for life.

Hwan’s rule, a memory in their heads: They see through motion. They feed through eyes.

A drop of something, not water, fell onto Ghost’s shoulder.

It hissed.

He froze as if his life depended on it, because it did. He would not flinch.