The subway entrance was a jagged wound in the pavement, leading down into a suffocating, subterranean dark. As Cattleya descended, the air grew thick with the scent of ozone and something sweet and rotting”the smell of a digital afterlife decomposing.
She moved by touch, her fingers trailing along the damp, moss-slicked walls of the tunnel. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, rhythmic protest against the silence. Every time she breathed, the dust of Oakhaven settled in her throat like powdered glass.
She reached a landing, the beam of a flickering, dying emergency light overhead struggling to pierce the gloom. Here, the walls weren't brick; they were lined with rows of cold, black glass cabinets”the storage units for the Nursery”s backup data. Most were shattered, their conte
