**DAMIEN POV**
The stairwell drops away beneath our boots, concrete steps slick with moisture and age. The metal railing is cold under my palm, pitted and flaking, leaving rust on my skin. The city disappears one level at a time until there is nothing left but darkness and the sound of our own movement echoing back at us, warped and delayed, like the place is answering us in its own language.
This is his terrain.
The abandoned subway station exhales mildew and stale air like it has been waiting for company. The smell hits hard and immediate. Rot. Rust. Standing water that has not moved in years. It coats the back of my throat, thick enough to taste, heavy enough to linger with every breath. It reminds me of basements we were never meant to enter, places meant to be sealed and forgotten.
