Notes From Undergroun Novels & Stories

“Not yet.” We pressed deeper. The ground sloped into a narrow passage hidden between two jagged stones. Then, without warning, the path opened into a vast underground space, a massive hideout carved beneath the earth. Fresh footprints covered the dirt. Charlotte clutched my arm. “This place… it’s huge.” “And active,” Rowan murmured. “Look.” My gaze followed his, a wall smeared with something dark and tacky. Blood. Fresh. And above it, scrawled in uneven letters:

The constant, low-grade terror that had been their normal life began to recede, replaced by a tentative wonder. For the adults, it was a time of planning and painful recovery. Liora spent hours with Anya and the elders, learning everything she could about the Citadel's underlevels from their ancient, hand-drawn maps. The stories spoke of the "Root-Rivers," a network of natural aquifers and geothermal vents that snaked beneath the Citadel's foundations. The Rememberers believed one of these rivers ran directly beneath the First Garden.

Desperation clawed at my throat as I banged the door again until my fists burned. Minutes or hours passed – I couldn’t tell. My phone had no signal this deep underground. Hell, even if it had a network, phone calls don’t go through except on Saturdays. Every second felt like drowning. I sank to the floor, knees scraping the stone, chest heaving. That’s when I saw it. A ledger book had fallen sideways on a lower shelf near where I’d kicked in my panic. Its cracked spine bore a date in faded silver ink: 2029 – Spring Semester.

“I don’t see anything…” Lena frowned. Her heart started beating faster again. “I swear… something’s there…” A girl cried out suddenly. “It’s under the ground!” Everyone turned. The cracks They were spreading. Slowly. Like veins crawling across the surface. “No… no, no…” the girl backed away, shaking her head. “I don’t like this I don’t like this!” The ground trembled again. Harder this time. Lena grabbed Noah’s arm instinctively. “Stay close,” she said quickly.

Ella gave a small nod before taking a flash drive from her bag and placing it on the table. "This contains everything." "The warehouse." "The underground room." "The surviving documents." "And the inventory records." Jonathan immediately reached for the flash drive. Devon connected it to his laptop without wasting a second. Dozens of scanned documents appeared on the monitor. Blueprints. Photographs. Old inventory sheets. Financial records. And one photo stopped everyone. The handwritten note left by Duan Dyne. Jonathan leaned closer. His fingers trembled slightly. "...Dyne." His voice cracked almost imperceptibly.

No official stamp, no foundation logo, and personal notes, of course. Men like him always keep their own record of the damage. I reach for the top notebook first. He puts one hand over it. “Read carefully,” he says. “You may not like what memory looks like when someone writes it down without kindness.” Aurora steps in before I can. “Move your hand.” He does. Good. I open the first notebook. The first page is enough to make my skin crawl. Subject B – intake retention notes. Not Nadia, not a child, Subject B. I keep reading anyway.

A notation. I thought about what was missing. About what the map needed to show that it was not showing. I thought about substrate continuity. About the schist under everything. About the origin under all the routes. I thought about what connected all the spirals. Not the routes. The ground. The map showed routes. It did not show the ground under the routes. The invisible substrate. The thing that connected everything. The schist that was five hundred million years old. Running under all of it.

​Graffiti, painted in a stark, lead-based white, covered the ruins: THE MIND IS A PRIVATE ROOM. DEATH TO THE OVERHEARD. RESTORE THE VOID. ​"They’ve turned privacy into a religion," Elara said, a chill running down her spine. ​The Infiltration ​They tracked the source of the high-frequency signal to the remains of the old Underground—the tunnels beneath the city where the "Unheard" had built their sanctuary. ​As they descended the stairs of a collapsed transit station, the silence changed. It became structured. They began to hear the sounds of industry—the rhythmic clanking of hammers, the hiss of steam, and the low murmur of human voices that didn't share a single thought.

"We'll give him cracks to see." Gino's lips twitch. "You're playing a dangerous game, boss." "I'm not playing," I murmur. "I'm building a coffin. One nail at a time." He falls into step beside me as we head toward the lower warehouse. The place smells of oil and iron, memories of my father's reign lingering in the shadows. This was his domain. His kingdom of blood and fear. Now it's mine. Leo's tied to a chair beneath a harsh overhead light. Bruised, bitter, still breathing. Good.

I am a Servant of Death, sent to the werewolf realm by the Dark Goddess of the Underworld. She gave me a single rule. Every year during the pack's Dark Moon Festival, I must receive a water lantern carrying a genuine blessing. The first year, my future Alpha mate, my brother, and my childhood best friend all wrote my name on their lanterns. The second year, my childhood friend Julian said my adopted sister, Chloe, was too weak, so he wanted to pray for her just this once. The third year, even my brother, Ryker, who swore to protect me forever, gave his lantern to Chloe. Only my fated mate, Declan, left one for me. This was the fourth year. I couldn't sleep at all, so I finally told them