Elias didn't look back. He tightened the straps of his rebreather, the rubber tasting of salt and old copper. He remembered Lena’s hand in his three nights ago, her fingers trembling as she whispered about a signal she’d found—a ghost in the machine calling from the deep. She had gone to find the source. She hadn't come back.
"She is lost," the drone insisted. "Gravity is a one-way street, Elias."
He looked into the abyss. It was a throat of twisted metal and steam, miles deep. Most people spent their lives looking up at the spires, dreaming of the sun. Elias only cared about the shadows. "Then I’m changing direction," he said. He stepped off the ledge.
Hours bled into a fever dream of grime. The air grew thick, tasting of ozone and ancient rot. He passed the 'Hollows,' where people with translucent skin watched him with wide, unblinking eyes. He didn't stop. He followed the faint, rhythmic pulse on his tracker—the beacon he’d tucked into Lena’s pocket weeks ago "just in case."