We crawl through the tunnel.
No lighting. Only darkness.
Stone scrapes my shoulders. The air smells old, like it was sealed and forgotten rather than abandoned.
Then light.
Gary crawls out first and rises to his feet. I follow a second later, pushing myself upright. The space opens suddenly.
A room—but not one the prison planned. The walls are uneven, tool-marked. Stone dust still clings to the corners. Furniture looks dragged, not built. Crates stacked where they fit, not where they belong. A large rock rests against the far wall, positioned too carefully to be natural.
Food. Supplies. Weapon racks. Bundles tied with string. Everything arranged with the quiet urgency.
"How long did you build this?" I ask.
Gary doesn't look at me. He's already moving.
"Weeks," he says. Then, after a beat, "Probably four months."
That doesn't line up, but I don't say anything.
"Let me find something for you."
He goes straight to one crate. Not searching—selecting.
Two long coats come out first. Folded the same way. Same weight. Same dark wool. Two belts. Same length. Same buckle shape. Two pairs of boots. Worn differently, but made the same.
"Same size as you," he says, handing one set over. "Try it, friend."
The coat is heavy. Dense wool, layered. The cut is old-fashioned—structured shoulders, narrow waist, a gentleman's silhouette meant to imply restraint rather than comfort. The seams are reinforced where movement would pull. The inside lining is repaired, not replaced. It smells faintly of smoke and oil. And something else. Old metal.
I pull it on over the blue prison uniform.
The weight settles me. The fabric doesn't cling. It hangs deliberate and balanced, like it expects a certain posture. The pockets sit exactly where my hands fall. Deep. Reinforced. Not decorative.
I tighten the belt. The holes are already worn to the right place.
The boots come next. Brown leather. Thick soles. The left one creaks slightly when I shift my weight. The right doesn't.
They're dry.
They fit. That matters.
The only thing missing is dry socks.
I look up.
Gary is already dressed. Same coat. Same belt. Same boots.
On him, it looks older. The cuffs are more worn. One shoulder sits a fraction lower, like it's been loaded unevenly for a long time.
On his back hangs a cylindrical bag—canvas, reinforced at both ends—slung from his left shoulder across his torso. The strap has been re-stitched twice. He adjusts it without looking. "Gary," I ask, "do you have a gun?"
The word lands heavy. Wrong, but familiar. Like something I'm not supposed to remember. He pauses. Just long enough.
"I lost mine on the upper floor," he says. "Ferals."
No explanation. No regret.
"I do have something else."
He turns to the weapon rack and lifts a crossbow free. The wood flexes once when he tests the string, then settles. He loads the cylindrical bag with bolts—methodical, practiced, counting without counting. Then he takes a knife and slides it into the bag where his hand already knows to reach.
When he faces me again, he studies my coat.
Not my face.
"I wasn't a combatant," he says.
"I fight," I reply. "You shoot. We survive."
He nods once.
Agreement.
Gary walks to the rock at the far wall and pushes it aside. Stone grinds. The motion is efficient. Rehearsed. Behind it, a tunnel yawns open—cut straight through stone, not widened, not corrected.
"Oh," he adds, almost as an afterthought, "one more thing."
I look at him.
"Never let the lessies spot you."
"And if they do?" I ask.
He doesn't hesitate.
"More will come."
I nod.
He crawls into the tunnel. I follow.
The passage narrows, then widens again. We crawl longer than feels reasonable. My shoulders start to ache. My breathing stays calm.
Then Gary stops.
He shifts something ahead—wood, maybe metal—and light bleeds in.
We emerge into another tunnel.
This one is different.
The ceiling is high enough that I could jump without hitting it. Water runs along a shallow channel beneath our feet, flowing somewhere unseen. The walls sweat. The light is minimal. Functional. Not welcoming.
"Dumping tunnel," Gary murmurs. "They've got one on every floor. I checked."
I don't ask how.
"So," he says quietly, "how's your heart?"
"Calm," I answer. "Somehow."
"Dang it," he mutters.
He leans close, whispers "We take it slow," he whispers. "Make no sound."
I nod.
He gestures for me to lead.
I step forward.
The tunnel swallows our footsteps. Water carries every noise too far. We move carefully, listening to our own breathing until it feels too loud.
That's when the quiet changes.
"Stop," Gary whispers.
I raise my right hand.
Pebble clicks.
We freeze.
Nothing moves.
I step forward again. Slowly. One foot at a time.
The tunnel holds its breath with us.
For now.