Chapter 3: Echoes Beneath the Earth

The bunker’s entrance creaked as Damon slowly pushed the rusted door inward. Dust drifted up in golden shafts of sunlight spilling through the cracks above. Hopper padded in first, ears perked and alert, sniffing the musty air. Damon hesitated.

“Feels like we just walked into the lungs of a dead beast,” he mumbled, waving away dust like a lost tourist swatting flies.

The staircase spiraled down into darkness. Damon tapped his SPS. A dim bluish beam flicked from the device, lighting their descent. The deeper they went, the quieter the world above became, until even the wind sounded distant—like a memory.

“Creepy quiet,” Damon whispered. “If a ghost jumps out at me, I’m throwing you at it, Hopper.”

“I will bite your face if you do that,” Hopper replied dryly in his head.

Damon cracked a smile, the first real one in hours.

At the bottom, they stepped into a wide chamber. Long-dead screens lined the walls, and desks sat askew, metal chairs tipped over like soldiers who had long abandoned their posts. In the center was a massive table with a holographic projector built into it. Damon wiped it with his sleeve and tapped the SPS against it. A low hum sounded, followed by a flickering blue light.

An old map of the world hovered above them, with flashing red points and coded names. “S-26… ZN-Delta… Veyruum HQ…” Damon squinted. “Wait—this was some kind of command post?”

“Looks that way,” Hopper murmured. “Most bunkers like this were built after the sky cracked. They needed safe places to coordinate when things got ugly.”

Damon took a shaky breath. “Makes sense. Everyone went nuts back then… People lost their minds, their cities, their dogs.”

“Not me.”

“No, not you,” Damon agreed, resting a hand on Hopper’s back.

He moved through the space slowly, like the air was heavier the further he walked. Old memories he didn’t have clung to the walls. Broken lab glass, scribbled notes on aging paper, a child’s drawing still stuck to a control panel—of a family standing under a blue sky.

He didn’t know why that last one hit so hard.

They moved further in, and Damon noticed a sealed chamber at the far end of the hallway. A small slot glowed on the door: handprint scanner. He placed his palm against it. The system scanned, hesitated… then clicked.

“You’d think that thing wouldn’t work after a hundred years,” he muttered, impressed. “This bunker has better tech than half of Veyruum’s outer districts.”

Inside was a small room, maybe once a sleeping quarter. The bed was overturned, and wires hung from the walls, but sitting dead center was a black case, half-buried under rubble. Damon and Hopper exchanged a glance.

Carefully, Damon dragged it free and opened the lid.

Inside was a knife.

But not just any knife. Its blade was made from a deep, silver-black metal that shimmered faintly. The handle was wrapped in worn leather, and strange markings ran along its edge. Damon picked it up—then dropped it instantly.

“Ow! What the hell?”

The blade had pulsed when he touched it. His palm stung, like it had shocked him—but not exactly pain. It felt like… something touched his mind.

“That’s no regular weapon,” Hopper said, ears flat. “It’s cursed.”

Damon blinked. “Like—evil?”

“Not exactly. Cursed doesn’t always mean evil. It means marked. Touched by something—someone. That knife was made for something bigger than slicing mutant deer for breakfast.”

Damon looked down at the blade, then slowly picked it up again. It didn’t burn this time. Instead, it felt… warm.

For a moment, the bunker was quiet again.

Then a low growl echoed from behind them.

Damon spun, knife in hand.

The door had closed behind them—but something else was in the hallway now. A hulking creature with skin like burnt leather and too many eyes. It stood on two legs but crawled like it didn’t know how to use them. It sniffed the air, then let out a roar that shook the lights overhead.

Damon froze.

He couldn’t move. His body trembled, fingers twitching around the knife. Blood. He could smell blood. Not his, not yet, but soon.

His breath came in gasps.

“Damon,” Hopper’s voice was firm now. “We need to move. You got this. Just don’t drop the knife.”

But Damon’s legs were statues. His mind screamed to run, to hide, to cry—anything but fight.

Then something strange happened.

The knife pulsed in his hand, like a heartbeat. The markings lit up faintly, casting a soft glow on his fingers. A whisper—not a voice, but a feeling—ran through him.

You are not alone.

He blinked.

And moved.

Not fast, not perfect—just enough to dodge the first swipe of claws. He tripped and rolled, but he didn’t let go of the knife. Hopper leapt, biting the beast’s leg, and Damon lunged forward, blade aimed at the monster’s side.

It struck home.

A screech echoed through the bunker, the sound of something unnatural in pain.

The monster thrashed and fled into the dark.

Damon fell to the floor, gasping.

“Okay,” he coughed. “Okay. That sucked.”

Hopper padded to his side. “You didn’t freeze this time.”

“No,” Damon said, still shaking. “I didn’t.”

He stared down at the knife in his hands.

A cursed weapon. A bunker full of lost knowledge. A beast he’d just barely survived.

And yet, something inside him had shifted.

He looked up at Hopper.

“I think… I’m ready to start figuring out what the hell is going on.”