When they brought us to the so-called "Sanctuary," I half-expected these rebels to crown me with thorns and chant "Savior!" in unison. Turns out, I'd given humanity's imagination far too much credit.
The "Nightmare Sanctuary" was nothing more than an abandoned subway tunnel. Paint peeling off, the mold stank like a silent funeral, and the air was laced with rust, paint fumes, and decades-old piss. Yet the leader of the resistance solemnly declared: "Here lies our last holy ground against the Shadow Organization."
I looked up at the dripping dome, then down at the half-rotted rat corpse in the corner. "So what's the plan, choke the Bureau to death with pneumonia?"
Nobody laughed. They were long past disguising despair as holiness.
Leading the way was a half-masked woman called "Raven." Her voice was low and steady, like a landlord who's been bargaining with Death over rent for years. As we walked, she explained: "We call this place a sanctuary because nightmare energy pools here. Buried in the walls are unfinished energy pipelines from last century. Some residual compounds disrupt the Bureau's tracking signals."
"Sounds impressive. In reality, it's just a subway station that never got electricity," my buddy Qi muttered.
Raven stopped, turned her icy stare on him. Qi shrank immediately and added, "I mean—uh—I love this… minimalist sanctuary aesthetic."
The "sacred heart" of this place was an old control room sealed by iron doors. Once opened, instead of holy light we were met with tangled cables and flickering monitors. The rebels had cobbled together a base here: rusty generators roaring, a few Frankenstein computers running some convoluted program.
"This is our bridge to the nightmares," Raven intoned, eyes glinting with zeal.
On screen played footage of a Bureau meeting. The only issue: every executive looked grotesque—their heads misshapen, eyes bulging like crushed grapes. "You sure this is stolen intel and not some paranormal YouTube upload?" I asked.
"It's the nightmare projection on their bodies," Raven said flatly.
The atmosphere turned grave. Except for me and Qi. We traded looks: great, not only do they call it a sanctuary, they might also be one step from a cult meltdown.
Yet, credit where due, they had intel outsiders couldn't dream of. Raven showed us files detailing Bureau-Shadow Organization deals: energy trials, human experiments, media manipulations. Suddenly, I understood why they hid underground—surface life meant swift annihilation.
"You found us because you've nowhere left to go," Raven said, her voice a knife at my throat. "We kept you because the nightmare energy in your bodies might be the only weapon left."
I smiled. "Thanks for putting it so sweetly: I'm basically your human warhead."
"Relax," Qi added, "warheads rarely press their own launch button."
Raven's glare sharpened. "This is not a joke."
"We know." I shrugged. "But honestly, calling this place a sanctuary is generous. 'Rat's Nest' feels more honest."
For a moment she was silent. Then she smirked. "Good. Humor means you're not fully devoured yet."
I couldn't tell if it was praise or a death certificate.
Deeper in, we met more rebels: one drawing infiltration routes on maps, another tinkering with a makeshift energy jammer, someone scribbling diary entries like this was an apocalyptic book club. Every gaze was weary yet resolute, as if their lives already belonged to an unseen judge.
Qi whispered, "I have a hunch we joined the wrong faction."
"Don't worry," I replied. "Even if we did, there's no way back. Besides, it's called a sanctuary—shouldn't there at least be snacks?"
Right then, a rebel walked past with a pot of over-boiled potato soup. He grinned. "Welcome to the Sanctuary."
I took a spoonful. It tasted not of hope, but of despair boiled down. Still, I raised my spoon high: "To the Sanctuary—and this potato soup, scarier than any nightmare."