Awake

That evening was thick with worry and unspoken tensions, a heavy atmosphere that seemed to permeate every corner of the bunker. It clung to the walls and hovered in the air, so palpable you could almost cut through it with a knife. Nobody dared to break the silence, except for the occasional obligatory exchange or hushed question. Even those words felt like unwelcome intrusions.

River's mind was still preoccupied with Finn. After their exchange during lunch—or what they called lunch, as none of them could tell what time it truly was—Finn had quietly disappeared toward the showers. The thought of following him lingered in River's mind like an itch he couldn't scratch, but his nerves kept him rooted in place. He couldn't bring himself to face Finn again.

Cove lingered at the dining table long after the others had dispersed, his gaze fixed on the remnants of the meal. Eventually, he stood and wandered over to the chess table in the corner of the room. He sat down heavily, pulling the chessboard toward him.

His posture was hunched, his hands moving the pieces back and forth in countless solo matches. His focus stayed locked on the board, his eyes flitting between pawns and rooks, but his mind was far from the game.

Raven's words replayed in his head, echoing over and over, like a haunting chant he couldn't silence. You're a coward. I hope you enjoy living with that regret. Each phrase hit like a punch to the gut, but it wasn't the words themselves that hurt the most—it was the truth they carried.

Cove's hands trembled as he moved a bishop into a corner, trapping it with a knight in a deliberate checkmate against himself. The game was over again, but he didn't reset the board. He simply sat there, staring at the pieces, feeling the weight of his own thoughts pressing down on him like the roof of the bunker might collapse.

On top of the individual tensions simmering between them, a shared unease gripped the group. Everyone was worried for Sage; the sight of him lying still on the couch, barely breathing, cast a heavy shadow over their thoughts.

But it wasn't just Sage's condition; it was the unsettling realization that any one of them could find themselves in a similar situation, vulnerable and unable to contact the outside world in time. The weight of their isolation pressed down on them like the cement walls that surrounded them.

As if the situation wasn't already fraught enough, a couple of minor earthshocks rippled through the structure. The tremors were faint, little more than a low rumble and a subtle vibration that caused the plates on the shelf to clink together. No one acknowledged them out loud; the boys seemed to silently agree that they didn't have the emotional bandwidth to spare for anything else in such a delicate moment.

Finn spent that evening sitting in front of the "fireplace," knees pulled up to his chest as he stared into the empty space within it. It wasn't warm, not in the way a real fireplace would be, but it was quiet. It gave him a place to retreat to, a small corner where the weight of the bunker didn't feel so crushing.

He thought about Lily—he always did when he came here. Somehow, it felt like the memories he left in this spot stayed behind, waiting patiently for him to pick them up again. Tonight, they were heavier than usual, her laugh echoing faintly in his mind, her absence sharp enough to make him ache.

The past two days had worn him thin. The relentless glare of the neon lights and the disorienting timelessness of the bunker were starting to take their toll on Finn. Two days without proper sleep and with no sense of day or night had left him unsteady, his thoughts heavy and fragmented. He felt like the artificial glow seeped into his skin, a poor substitute for the sunlight he once took for granted. The absence of any natural rhythm gnawed at him, amplifying his exhaustion and the quiet ache of his grief.

When Han opened the heavy, round door that sealed them off from the rest of the world, Finn looked up in surprise, his eyes momentarily adjusting to the dim light filtering in. Han's silhouette, framed by the door, felt like a strange beacon in the otherwise oppressive silence of the bunker.

"Hello, boy, it's you again!" Han greeted, his voice warm yet carrying a hint of amusement.

"Han, hello!" Finn replied, his words laced with both joy and lingering sadness.

"I brought you something. There's a small watch in there too—you seem to need it since it's 4 a.m., and you're up again," Han remarked with a half-teasing tone as he gently tossed a white plastic bag down toward Finn, who caught it with both hands. "Tell your short friend to at least smoke directly into the vent, will you?"

"One of us is sick, Han. Can you help?" Finn asked, his voice carrying the weight of the unease that had been building all day.

Han lifted his gas mask just enough to show the slight furrow in his brow, his eyes clouded with a touch of sadness. "I can try to bring you something, but the emergency hospitals are already overwhelmed. And technically, I shouldn't even be here." His voice softened. "What does he have?"

"He fainted," Finn said, his words trailing off with a sense of helplessness. "He's been out all evening."

Han's frown deepened as he considered the situation. "It could be his body reacting to the environment. You all haven't been getting proper rest, right?"

"Yeah..." Finn hesitated. He wasn't entirely sure about Han's theory, but it made a kind of sense. "It's starting to get to me too. I feel like shit," he admitted, the rawness of his tone a clear sign of his own exhaustion.

Han's face shifted with concern. "You were quite unlucky, having the lights on nonstop like that. Some of the newer bunkers use lights that simulate day and night. They're a lot better for your... well-being. Ugh, I shouldn't be telling you this," he added, quickly biting his tongue, clearly uncomfortable with the slip.

Finn, still processing Han's words, lifted his head and looked at him with a hint of curiosity. "How many bunkers are there?" he asked, voice steady but laced with an unspoken fear of what that might mean.

Han paused, his expression shifting as if weighing the answer. "On this floor alone, there are twenty," he said. "On the deeper levels, there are more."

His tone was matter-of-fact, though the way he trailed off suggested there was much more beneath the surface. Han was the type of person who, despite his best efforts, couldn't keep secrets at all.

Finn's eyes lit up. "Does that mean this is one of the most superficial levels?" he asked, his voice sharp with the cleverness of the question.

Han's face hardened for a moment, his expression turning almost defensive. "I -- don't think what you're thinking, boy!" he said quickly, waving his hands in the air as if to dismiss the thought. "Listen to me, alright? Don't try to escape. There's nothing out there worth risking your life for. And even if you tried, they'd catch you and drag you right back here, even if they can't shoot or hurt you... ugh, here I go again!"

Han let out a frustrated groan, almost as if he were speaking more to himself than Finn. With an exaggerated motion, he slapped himself lightly on the face.

Finn opened his mouth to ask more questions, but before he could even get the first word out, Han held up a hand, silencing him with a look. "Shh! They're coming this way," Han whispered urgently. "I'll be back tomorrow night. Take care of all your friends. Don't do stupid things, okay?"

With that, Han quickly pulled his gas mask back on, sealing his face from view. Finn nodded wordlessly, still processing everything that had just been said. Han gave him a quick wave before turning and closing the heavy lid with a soft thud, careful not to make a sound.

Finn was left standing there, staring into the darkness of the fireplace. His mind buzzed with a thousand thoughts, none of them settling long enough for him to fully grasp any one of them.

Meanwhile, Raven sat in the chair next to the couch all evening, lightly dozing off, but always finding an excuse to hover around Nima, who remained still, his expression stoic and patient as he waited for his turn to speak with an operator.

Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2 had become, in a way, the soundtrack to the silence of the cold room—its gentle, melancholic notes filling the air, soft and constant, like a breath held too long.

Nima kept a careful watch over Sage. Every so often, he would lean in, his eyes scanning Sage's face to ensure his breath was steady, that he was covered and comfortable.

"Your position is now sixteen," the metallic, feminine voice announced, cutting through the stillness of the night.

In the same breath, Sage's dark, almond-shaped eyes fluttered open.