The bike finally gave its last cough, out of gas, before a wasteland of half-fallen smokestacks and graffiti-covered factories.
"Perfect ending," I panted, tossing my helmet. "No gas, no future."
Karl rolled his eyes. "Can't you, for once, sound hopeful?"
"Hopeful?" I pointed at the flashing searchlights in the distance. "We're hunted by a global death corporation with a budget ten times our lives. Optimism would just mean brain damage."
Clapping echoed.
Figures stepped out—gas masks, like actors from a miscast tragedy. The leader, gaunt, shone a flashlight on us. "You've been running a long time."
Karl raised his gun. "Who are you?"
"Relax. Not Bureau dogs." The man pulled off his mask, pale face smirking. "We're the ones who refuse to swallow nightmare pills. Call us—the Underground Resistance."
I raised a brow. "Sounds like a rock band."
"Close enough," he said. "Our concerts are just bloodier."
Karl still tense: "How'd you know we'd be here?"
"We've been watching the Bureau. Your wanted poster dropped an hour ago. PR already painting you as 'nightmare-infected threats.' That's how we knew—real troublemakers finally arrived."
I barked a dry laugh. "Troublemaker? The only thing I ever made was messes."
"That's enough." He stepped closer, voice low. "Messes mean they don't control everything."
They led us into the ruins, past a welded steel door into their base. Rusted computers, cobbled-together medical gear, tables buried under maps. The air stank of coffee and gunpowder.
"Welcome to hell's branch office," the leader spread his arms.
I looked around. "With neon signs, you could market this as a nightclub."
A woman snapped: "Nightclubs have dancers. Here we only have corpses."
"Exactly," I shot back. "Corpses are quieter."
They handed us steaming coffee, bitter as engine oil. I choked down a sip. "Is this coffee, or did someone pour lubricant in by mistake?"
"Quit whining," Karl muttered. "At least it's hot."
We gathered around a map dotted with red marks—Bureau sites. Black circles marked suspected "experiment zones."
"They test nightmare energy there," the leader explained. "Humans as consumables. Soldiers as test tubes. Weapons from fear itself."
Karl's face hardened. "So you want to destroy them?"
"Not destroy. Expose." His eyes gleamed. "Drag the world into the one thing they fear—truth."
I whistled. "Romantic. But here's the catch: truth sells worse than lies. Lies come sugar-coated."
He smiled. "That's why we need freaks like you. Traitors. Lunatics. Outcasts. You're the only ones who won't swallow the candy poison."
Karl leaned close. "You think we can trust them?"
I shrugged. "Can mistrust keep us alive? We already share basements with rats. At least traitors are honest—they admit they betrayed."
The room broke into laughter, like they'd heard the perfect bitter joke.
"Welcome aboard." The leader offered his hand.
I hesitated, then shook it. Cold.
Maybe another scam. Maybe their coffee really had oil.
But in this world, one thing's certain:If you don't resist—you're already dead.