Chapter 19
The bunker’s main hall was a cavern of flickering shadows and echoing murmurs, its concrete walls sweating moisture that dripped from cracks like slow tears. Lanterns hung from chains, their flames guttering in the draft from hidden vents, casting orange glows on faces etched with the hard lines of survival. Arthur sat on a crate, his machete across his knees, sharpening it with a whetstone that rasped like a whisper in the quiet. His stitches pulled with every breath, a reminder of the woods' claws, but the fever had broken days ago, leaving him leaner, harder, his eyes squinting into the dim light with that slum-kid wariness. Elena hovered nearby, passing out mugs of weak tea brewed from foraged herbs, her dark hair tucked behind her ears, her glances lingering on him a beat
