The night pressed down like a moldy old blanket, suffocating. Rain poured from a cracked drain, drenching Karl and me until we were nothing but soaked corpses in motion. Half-dead, we dragged ourselves through the dark, stinking tunnel.
"You think we've escaped?" Karl whispered, his voice bouncing off the concrete.
I let out a laugh, nearly choking on the taste of my own blood."Escaped? We just crawled from one cage into another latrine. The only difference is—this place has no guards with official badges, just rats and mold."
A rat squeaked, as if to agree.
We kept crawling. The water deepened, lapping against our calves. Moss covered the walls, a reminder that all human flight ends up rotting in time.
Then came a strange echo up ahead—metal being slapped, clumsily.
Karl froze, face pale. "Pursuers?"
"Relax. Not them. Their footsteps are neat, like war drums. This sounds more like… a drunk plumber."
Sure enough, turning the corner we found a vagrant curled up, hugging a cracked kettle. He grinned, teeth darker than the night.
"Welcome to the presidential suite of the sewers," he croaked. "Today's special: dampness with a side of despair."
Karl almost laughed, but I didn't bother."Old man, which way's out?"
He pointed with a filthy hand. "Straight, then left. Don't go right. The bigger traitors live there."
We didn't ask. Around here, "bigger traitors" probably meant nightmare beasts with too many teeth.
After half an hour we crawled out of a broken exit, emerging at the ruins of a train station on the city's edge. The air was still wet, but better than the sewer's rot.
Faraway skyscrapers blinked with alarms, like the eyes of colossal beasts watching us.
"Beautiful," I muttered.
Karl frowned. "Beautiful? We're international fugitives."
"Exactly. That's why breathing free air is a luxury. Most people die without ever getting this."
Karl went quiet, then whispered: "Have you just… gotten used to despair?"
I shrugged. "No. I just learned how to light a cigarette in it."
We couldn't stay long. The old PA system of the station still crackled, spitting out random numbers. Codes maybe—or a lunatic's hymn.
"This place creeps me out," Karl said. "We need transport."
I spotted a rusted motorcycle with a torn seat and a one-eyed teddy bear strapped to the front. Its remaining eye dangled, winking at us.
"Perfect," I said. "Like us: half-dead, still moving."
Karl eyed it. "Does it even run?"
"Running's optional. Attitude's mandatory." I kicked the starter. Miraculously, the engine coughed and roared alive.
We sped along the rails, rain smacking our faces like trial rounds of bullets.
Behind us, faint sirens wailed. The city hadn't let go—it was a giant hound gnawing our ankles.
"They're still chasing!" Karl yelled.
"Of course. If they stop, it means admitting we have choices—and government's biggest fear is anyone having a choice."
Karl gritted his teeth. "Where are we going?"
I smirked into the darkness. "Anywhere. Hell's everywhere anyway. Might as well pick one with a view."
The tracks stretched into barren fields. Our headlights cut a thin path through the storm. We were bullets, abandoned by the world, skimming its edge.
Maybe tomorrow we'd be caught, maybe the day after killed. But right now—we were still running.
Escape wasn't for survival.
It was to shout, before dying:Your script isn't my ending.