When everything began, I wasn’t even alive yet.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t carry their traces.
The elders say that sometime in the late 1990s, humanity ruined the world for its own interests.
I don’t know the details.
Maybe they exaggerate. People like to exaggerate.
But of one thing I’m certain: whatever the old humanity did, we breathe its consequences every single day.
Nature did not forget what was done to it.
Maybe it stayed silent for centuries—but one day, that silence broke.
Humanity released so much carbon into the atmosphere that global climates collapsed; the balance between animals shattered. Those meant to be born died before taking their first breath, and those who lived became far more than they were ever meant to be. Most species couldn’t bear the weight and vanished.
The majority of what remained were arthropods and reptiles.
But it didn’t stop there.
Because we destroyed the ecosystem, global famines followed. There were no animals left to hunt, no land left to farm. Mothers were forced to give their crying children hot water just to silence the hunger in their stomachs. With no systems left to even process the bodies of those who starved to death, horrific diseases spread. Millions died from hunger and illness alone.
A few species, unlike us, managed to adapt to this new world.
Or rather—the world forced them to survive.
They grew, but not the right way. Perfect evolution was replaced by a grotesque instinct focused solely on survival—growth without form.
That was when humanity suffered its second great blow.
We were no longer the dominant species.
Birds that once fed on insects became prey. The rulers of the surface were now the very creatures we once deemed inferior: insects and reptiles. They multiplied uncontrollably—because dominance was finally theirs.
At first, cities were still relatively safe. Attacks and abductions happened, but not enough to cause panic. That didn’t last long. Living in cities became nothing more than an open buffet.
Governments turned to what they believed were perfect shelter candidates beneath the metropolises: subways. Walls were reinforced, layers of metal and lead were added. Ventilation, air filtration, and water treatment systems were built. Airlocks were installed at entrances—perhaps, one day, the surface would become habitable again.
By the time humanity reached this point, two-thirds of the world’s population was gone.
The surface was no longer a place to live.
Those who survived crossed continents, cities, and roads turned into graveyards just to reach the last pockets of breathable air.
One of the largest migrations was toward the Istanbul subway system. Thousands of people traversed hundreds of kilometers of hostile, deadly terrain to descend underground. Istanbul became one of the few remaining livable metro networks in the world.
As underground stations overflowed, the people of Istanbul didn’t turn newcomers away. Despite hunger, disease, and fear, the doors remained open. But humanity, as always, refused to accept defeat. We wouldn’t accept living like rats underground.
As a last resort, we turned to nuclear power.
After that, the world belonged to neither us nor them.
The surface became the formless legacy of bodies forced to survive.
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The underground became a slowly rotting mass grave for what remained of humanity.
A new day had begun.
In cold, dark, damp tunnels, the metro never warmed—nuclear winter ensured it was always cold, and then colder. Luk was among the relatively lucky ones. He lived in a solid, independent station on the Anatolian side. It wasn’t perfectly secure, but in the new world order, he could at least breathe.
Those who once lived like gods on the surface now hid in the darkness of the metro. Food and water were scarce, electricity came and went without warning. No one knew when the shapeless things left on the surface might descend. At the same time, the struggle against radiation seeping underground never ended.
Twenty-four years had passed since the first war. Resources on the Anatolian side were nearly depleted. Ventilation systems no longer worked—breathing itself had become torture. And as if that weren’t enough, there was a cult that controlled all resources: The Children of God.
Every month, their bloody and brutal murders carried out in the name of “sacrifice” had become routine. What could you do to someone whose resources you depended on? When sacrifice day came, the cold hand of death swept through the tunnels. Sometimes, days after the rituals, dismembered bodies and limbs nailed to the metro’s cold walls were found. It had been like this for years. People were used to it.
This was the order of the new world.
No children were born. Only death remained.
Death. Death. Death.
With every passing minute, there was only one thing to wait for: when you would die.
Tick… tick… tick…
The lights flickered on one by one. Cold light flooded the tunnel. Luk’s pupils constricted as his neck hairs stood on end. His palms pressed against the cold metal of the railcar. Everyone watched from their makeshift wagon shelters—no one dared to take a single step.
The boots of the Apostles echoed across the concrete—rhythmic, heavy, inevitable. The rasping breath from the filters inside their masks sounded like the tunnel itself breathing. This was an independent station; electricity here was nearly nonexistent. In a place suffering from resource scarcity, the lights turning on…
It was as impossible as an angel descending from the sky.
There was only one explanation:
The Children of God had come to claim new sacrifices.
Shouts echoed through the tunnel:
— “DAMN IT! THEY’RE HERE!”
— “PLEASE, DON’T TAKE ME!”
— “You already took my husband… please don’t take my son!”
When the Children of God chose you as a sacrifice, there was no return. They took you and left. If you were lucky, a few days later your body—what remained of it—might be found. At the start of every month, the Apostles appeared and took a few people. But this time, they had returned before even a month had passed.
The Apostle stopped in front of a railcar, his boots echoing. He forced the door open. Screams erupted from inside as they dragged a woman out. The moment they tore the small child from Nerida’s arms, the station’s heavy air grew even heavier.
Despite Nerida’s pleas, no one made a sound. Even the smallest noise would mean that the child would be no different from the sacrifices before him.
The child in Nerida’s arms was the first born in the Free Station in a long time. But to the Children of God, he was nothing more than a piece of meat.
They didn’t care who the sacrifice was.
They believed in only one thing:
“Blood is sacred.
Sacrifice is sacred.”
Nerida’s endless pleas echoed against the thick, emotionless walls of the station. A place that meant nothing to Luk was everything that child had left. A hope.
Maybe that was why he had been chosen.
Luk couldn’t take it anymore. He was sick of hearing screams and pleas over and over again. He had fled here because of the strict military discipline of the Leader’s station—but compared to this place, that station was paradise. He hated this world. He hated this order.
As he looked at the child torn from Nerida’s arms, memories flooded his mind—days when he had lived happily with his mother. The fact that people had grown accustomed to killing lives in the name of a senseless religion disgusted him. Could a human life really be this cheap?
A curse slipped from his mouth, barely audible:
— “Fucking zealots.”
A heavy silence fell over the tunnel.
Behind him, a silhouette approached with heavy steps.
An Apostle.
Even the armor beneath the cloak revealed his size and strength. As he drew closer, nothing could be read from the horrific mask on his face—no emotion, no humanity. It reminded one only of death.
People didn’t say it for nothing:
“If the Apostles have come, death is closer than a single breath.”
And then—the strike of a rifle butt…
Everything fell into darkness.
