-- Moscow, Metro — D6 Bunker --
The dull hum of generators was the ever-present heartbeat of D6. The flicker of an overhead light cast unsteady shadows against the stained concrete walls. Artyom lay on his cot, half-asleep, the cold creeping through the fabric of his clothes.
A knock, soft but insistent.
Before he could answer, the door eased open and Khan stepped inside. His eyes carried that same haunted look they always did, like he was forever peering into something only he could see.
"Artyom," Khan said quietly. "Get up. There's something we must discuss."
Artyom swung his legs over the cot, rubbing his eyes. "Khan? What is it?"
"There's a survivor," Khan whispered. "A Dark One. It lives. We must speak to Miller—"
Before he could finish, a voice from the hallway cut in. Ullman appeared in the doorway, carrying a rifle over his shoulder.
"Hey, what the hell are you doing here, Khan?" Ullman asked, narrowing his eyes. "You're not supposed to be bothering people at this hour."
Khan's expression didn't shift. "This concerns the Order. And Miller. Now."
Ullman muttered something under his breath, then sighed. "Fine. But you'll have to deal with him yourself."
Without another word, Khan and Ullman turned and headed down the corridor. Artyom quickly grabbed his satchel , and left his cramped quarters behind.
The halls of D6 were alive with weary life — men in patched uniforms gathered around oil heaters, the distant clang of tools striking metal. As Artyom passed a group of Rangers, he caught bits of conversation.
"…last week it was firefights between the Reds and Reich, trading shots at every occasion… and now, nothing."
"Yeah.Something isn't right ."
Rumors filled every corner of the Metro, and fear clung to these tunnels like mold.
At the armory, the quartermaster, an old man named Kiril, looked up from cleaning a battered revolver.
"Gear up, Artyom," he grunted, pushing a worn satchel across the counter. "Mask, filters, medkit. I threw in some spare bullets and a Kalash too. Watch yourself out there."
Artyom gave a silent nod, strapping the supplies onto his harness before moving on.
He caught up with Khan and Ullman near one of the reinforced bulkhead doors, where a pair of armed guards stood at attention. Ullman spoke quietly with them for a moment, and the thick metal door slowly groaned open.
They stepped through.
Ahead , a rusted escalator rested at the edge of the platform.The old escalator groaned as it slowly carried them upward, toward the command level of D6. The overhead lamps flickered, casting long, thin shadows that danced across the aging concrete walls. The metal steps vibrated beneath their boots.
Khan stood quietly at the front, his gaze distant, as though watching something only he could see. Ullman kept glancing around, visibly tense.
As the escalator passed a landing, two Order Rangers standing by a makeshift checkpoint exchanged worried glances. Their conversation carried to the trio.
"…nothing from the Reich or the Reds in over a week," one muttered, his voice low. "Not a shot fired, not a patrol sighting, not even the damned propaganda over the radios."
"Yeah," the other replied, tightening his grip on his Kalash. "It's not right. There were rumors of war… every checkpoint said they were amassing troops, firefights breaking out. Now? Nothing. Like they disappeared."
"Or worse. Planning something bigger."
Khan turned his head slightly at that, his expression unreadable. Artyom felt a chill crawl up his spine.
As they reached the intended platform,they found more groups of Rangers lingered in corners, clustered around old radios and makeshift maps. Artyom caught snatches of similar conversations.
"Even Polis doesn't know what's happening."
The absence of gunfire and threats in the Metro wasn't peace. It was the kind of quiet that came before storms.
Reaching the thick, reinforced doors of the Command Center, Ullman stepped forward and knocked on the narrow, grime-smeared window of the adjacent control booth. Inside, a guard looked up from a battered radio console.
Ullman raised his voice just enough.
"We need to speak with Colonel Miller. It's important."
The guard hesitated for a second, then nodded and worked the controls. With a heavy groan and clatter of ancient gears, the doors began to slide open.
Inside, the air was heavy with cigarette smoke and the hum of old machinery. Rows of consoles, flickering with dim green screens. Rangers and technicians manned them, tense and focused.
The trio made their way past them, heading toward a secondary chamber enclosed in thick glass. Inside, Colonel Miller stood before a massive map of the Metro, with several officers gathered around a long table strewn with documents and reports.
Miller was mid-sentence when he caught sight of them. His expression darkened.
"Khan," he growled, voice sharp. "You have no business here. Unless you're here to report something useful."
Khan stepped forward, calm as ever.
"I do, Colonel. It concerning the Dark One's. A young one It's still alive… and Artyom must find it."
A hush settled over the room.
Miller's brow furrowed.
"One survived?!"
"Luckily, yes."
"Luckily?" Miller slammed a fist against the table. "The Dark Ones are the greatest threat this Metro's ever faced!"
"You're wrong," Khan said quietly but firmly. "This one is no danger. Artyom has a gift. He can reach them. Understand them. This is our only chance to fix the mistake we made."
Miller glared at him, then exhaled heavily.
"Alright. Artyom will go… but not alone. He'll have cover." He gestured toward Anna, who had been leaning against the wall, arms crossed.
"My best sniper."
Khan's face darkened.
"A sniper? Why? If the boy's no threat—"
Miller cut him off, "I won't risk the metro for your hunch."
Before Khan could argue further, two guards stepped forward. One grabbed Khan's arm.
"You're done here." Miller growled.
As Khan was escorted out, he called back over his shoulder.
"Artyom — don't kill it. Remember what I said!"
The heavy doors closed behind him.
Miller turned to Artyom.
"You'll leave immediately. Anna will guide you. Find the Dark One and eliminate him, you know what to do."
He sighed, rubbing a hand down his scarred face.
"I have to head to Polis. There was talk's of war between the Reich and the Reds, but no one's moved for over a week. Something isn't right ."
Artyom nodded silently.
Miller's gaze softened, just a little.
"Good luck, son."
Anna stepped up beside Artyom, a teasing smirk playing at her lips.
"Let's go, Rabbit. Try not to get eaten."
Without waiting for a reply, she turned and strode toward the elevator, her rifle slung across her back.
Artyom followed, the weight of the mission — and Khan's parting words — settling over him.
The elevator rattled and groaned as it climbed upward, carrying Artyom and Anna toward the upper levels of D6. The air grew colder, the metal walls sweating with condensation. Neither of them spoke for a while, the weight of the mission hanging between them.
As the doors clanked open, Anna smirked, leaning in just a little.
"Try not to slow me down out there, rabbit," she teased, eyes glinting with amusement.
Artyom grunted, and followed her out.
The platform above was empty, save for the cold hum of overhead lamps. In the distance, through a thick window of reinforced glass, they could see the silhouette of the control room. The operator inside glanced at their arrival, nodded, and pressed a series of buttons on his panel.
With a groan of ancient hydraulics, the massive steel doors ahead began to part, revealing a dark tunnel beyond.
They boarded the old automated railcar, its faded paint and dented metal a relic of another age. The vehicle lurched forward .
Anna chuckled, resting her rifle against her shoulder.
"Next generation won't even know how to run these old relics," she mused as they rumbled deeper into the gloom. "And the one after that? They'll probably think the gods built them."
Artyom stayed quiet, watching the dark rush past.
About ten minutes into the ride, the railcar slowed as another set of towering metal doors came into view. From somewhere behind them, D6's control room activated the remote systems. A low hum vibrated through the tracks, and the doors shuddered, then began to slide open.
As this was happening the operator's voice crackled through a battered intercom beside them.
"Be careful out there," he warned. "Some parts of Metro-2 haven't been cleared since we took D6. Nobody knows what's crawling around those old tunnels."
The tunnel beyond was even darker.
The railcar pressed on, its headlights barely cutting the heavy black.
After several more minutes, the outline of an old station emerged ahead, choked with webs and rubble. As they approached, flickering lights along the platform gutters blinked on, one after another, powered remotely by D6's systems.
The station stirred to a dim, unsteady life.
Anna stood, adjusting her rifle.
"Looks like this is it ."
They stepped off, the stale air thick with dust and silence.
Ahead, a towering metal blast door loomed. Beside it, a rusted control panel flickered to life.
Artyom stepped up, grabbed the worn lever, and with a sharp tug, sent it clattering into place.
The door groaned open, scraping along ancient tracks.
Beyond, only darkness waited.
"After you, rabbit," Anna murmured with a sly grin.
Passing through the heavy blast door, Artyom's flashlight beam swept across the floor — and landed on a decayed skeleton slumped against the wall, the ragged remains of a uniform still clinging to brittle bones. He stopped for a moment to look at the skeleton, then moved on.
They ascended a narrow, crumbling staircase, weapons raised. Every corner was a potential threat, every shadow hiding old bones or worse. Along the way, more skeletons lay strewn across the floor — some still clutching rusted weapons, others sprawled as though fleeing something long since gone.
At the top of the stairs, the corridor stretched out before them, damp and cold. Artyom took point, Anna covering his flank, their boots splashing softly through shallow pools of water. Reaching a rusted metal door, Artyom gave Anna a quick nod. She returned it.
He pushed the door open.
Anna swept left, Artyom right — weapons ready, movements practiced. Beyond lay a large drainage canal, the air thick with the sour stench of rot and old water. The only sounds were the drip of moisture and their own careful steps.
According to the map, they needed to find a ladder up to the surface.
As they crept forward, a sudden blur of motion ahead caught their eyes. A hunched, furred creature bolted across the tunnel, roughly a hundred meters away, then vanished into the dark.
Anna snorted.
"Fast little bastard." She glanced at Artyom with a smirk. "But nothing we can't handle."
Up ahead, a rusted ladder led to a sealed grate above. Anna strode toward it, pulling her gas mask from her pack and fixing it in place.
"Better mask up," she advised, her voice muffled behind the filter. "No telling what's up there."
Artyom followed suit, securing his mask just as Anna gripped the rungs of the ladder and began to climb. Artyom moved to follow, only for Anna to glance down with a crooked grin visible through the scratched glass of her mask.
"Quit staring at my ass, rabbit — way outta your reach ."
Artyom chuckled softly, shaking his head, and followed her up.
At the top, Anna pressed her shoulder against the grate, straining.
"Give me a hand, will you?" she muttered. Together, they shoved the metal cover aside with a grinding screech.
The bitter wind howled as Anna climbed out of the service hatch, adjusting her mask and scanning the desolate ruins ahead. The skeletal remains of the city stretched out before them — a landscape of collapsed structures, rusted vehicles, and ash-laden snow.
"Alright," Anna's voice crackled through the radio, turning to Artyom. "We'll head for the main entrance. There's a good vantage point there. I'll cover you from above."
Without wasting time, they darted through the wreckage of old vehicles and toppled light posts, keeping low as the shadow of a demon passed overhead, its leathery wings disturbing the snow-dusted air.
Reaching the rusted, warped gates of the Botanical Gardens, Anna stopped, crouching behind a derelict bus. She flicked on her scope and scanned the silent grounds.
"Listen, Artyom," she spoke, the edge in her voice softened just a little. "This… Dark One. If it senses you, is good. Maybe it'll come right to you. And if you won't do it . I'll handle it."
She tapped the side of her headset. "Keep your radio on. Stay in the open so I've got a clear shot. Don't try anything, rabbit."
Artyom gave a silent nod, tightening his grip on his weapon before stepping through the broken gates.
The air felt heavier inside the Gardens, thick with the scent of decay and old earth . Statues and benches lay buried beneath years of dust and snow.
Anna's voice came softly through the radio as he moved. "You and my father really left a mark on this place ."
Artyom pressed forward, his boots crunching over dead branches and glass shards, the ruines eerily quiet except for the distant creak of twisted metal.
-------------
Artyom moved cautiously towards the skeletal remains of what was once the Dark Ones' dwelling — a desolate sprawl of crumbled stone, twisted rebar, and scorched earth. The sky above was a dull, oppressive grey, thick clouds swirling like ash. His Geiger counter ticked softly in his ear, the only sound until a long, mournful howl cut through the stillness.
Howl... then another. Closer.
"Artyom," Anna's voice crackled over the radio, calm but sharp. "You've got company. A pack of Watchers heading your way. Get ready."
Artyom gritted his teeth, flicking the safety off his rifle. He found what cover he could behind the rusted husk of an overturned vehicle, eyes scanning the shifting shadows.
The pack came fast — six of them. Mangy fur, bared yellow fangs, eyes glinting in the gloom. They snarled as they closed the distance.
A sharp crack echoed across the ruins. One of the Watchers dropped mid-leap, a neat hole in its skull. Anna.
Another fell, then a third.
Artyom fired, dropping one at point-blank range. He sidestepped another lunging beast and buried his knife in its throat. Blood sprayed, hot and foul.
The last one circled, snarling, before Artyom put a bullet through its skull.
"Clear," he muttered into the radio, breathing hard.
"Good shooting, Rabbit," Anna teased, her voice lighter now. "Move on. The Dark One's close — I can feel it."
Artyom reloaded, his fingers slick with sweat, and pressed forward into the ruins, toward the place where the past and his fate waited.
Artyom pressed on through the crumbling ruins of the Botanical Gardens, his breathing shallow beneath the gas mask, heart pounding against his ribs. The overgrown, frostbitten remains of the Dark Ones' old dwelling stretched before him — passages of earth and stone, half-collapsed tunnels choked with twisted roots and broken concrete. Every corner whispered of the past.
"I see him!" Anna's voice crackled in his earpiece, sharp and breathless. "Can't get a clear shot — he's too deep in there!"
The figure ahead darted like a shadow between columns of debris, its skin darker than he remembered, the color of ash and storm clouds. The Young Dark One was fast, weaving through the ancient sanctum where its kind had once lived.
Artyom pushed himself harder, ignoring the burn in his legs as the creature disappeared down a narrow earthen passage. Broken bits of metal and bone littered the ground. Anna's voice was distant now, the thick earth walls muffling the radio signal.
Suddenly — a sharp metallic snap. A makeshift trap rigged between two slabs of concrete.
The young one yelped in surprise as a crude cage fell from above, pinning it to the ground. Artyom skidded to a stop, weapon raised, his sights locked onto the trapped creature.
For a long moment, neither moved.
Then, without speaking, the voice came again — not through ears, but directly in Artyom's mind. A layered, distant echo.
"You… the one who destroyed us."
Artyom's breath caught. The young one's glowing eyes watched him not with hatred, but weariness. Its voice was faint, frayed by fear and exhaustion.
"We will leave. There is nothing left for us here."
Artyom hesitated, fingers tightening around the trigger. The weight of what he'd done — to this place, to them — pressed down like a lead weight
Artyom hesitated, lowering his weapon.
Without a word, he reached for the rusted latch and opened the cage. The young Dark One pulled itself free, staggering upright. In that instant, Artyom saw them — shadowy figures moving silently through the mist-choked ruins, darker than the crumbling walls around them. The last of the Dark Ones.
Then — like fading ghosts — they vanished into the ruins.
A split-second later, the low growl of an engine rolled across the dead landscape.
A beat-up, heavily modified car — its frame armored with scrap metal and plates bolted crudely to its sides — screeched to a stop nearby. Five soldiers in black Reich uniforms spilled out, rifles raised and aimed squarely at Artyom.
"Drop it!" one of them barked in harsh, guttural Russian.
Artyom froze. The moment was over. His weapon clattered to the cracked concrete.
"On your knees!"
He obeyed, hands raised slowly.
Then the butt of a rifle crashed against the side of his head.
And everything went black.
---------------------
Artyom's head pounded, a deep, dull ache that made it hard to focus. His wrists ached where heavy chains cut into them, linking him to a line of other prisoners — some dirty, some wounded, a few with vacant, hollow stares. The stale, damp air of the tunnel reeked of rust, oil, and unwashed bodies.
Fourth Reich soldiers paced back and forth, weapons slung and watchful.
An officer approached, his sharp features bathed in yellow lamp light. In his gloved hand, a clipboard.
"Inspection," he barked coldly. The prisoners stiffened.
He moved down the line, peering into faces, forcing open mouths, examining hands. Every so often, he'd pause, scowl, and mark something on his board.
"Mutant," he spat at a trembling man with a misshapen ear.
"No — I'm normal, two legs, two arms , ten fingers, please—"
A soldier cracked him across the head with a rifle butt, and the man slumped, groaning.
"Lucky filth," the officer sneered. "Your miserable life has purpose."
He motioned to two soldiers, who dragged the man down a side tunnel. Artyom noticed a few other prisoners already missing from the line, with old rusted shackles clinking on the ground where they'd been.
This wasn't the usual Reich execution line — this was forced labor.
Mutants, prisoners, anyone they captured — used like animals.
Artyom's stomach twisted. He could see the fear in their faces. Not even the Reich's own men spoke of where they were being sent.
One of the guards stepped forward.
"Sir, this one's Red Line. Picked him up on the surface near the old gas station." He shoved a battered man forward — his faded Red Line armband barely visible under the grime.
"Another one with him was killed in the skirmish."
The officer scowled. "Spying on us, eh?" He studied the prisoner with cold, appraising eyes.
"Take him away."
Other two soldiers seized the man by the arms. The Red Line soldier struggled, pleading, but a rifle butt to the ribs silenced him. They dragged him down the side tunnel.
The officer made a mark on his clipboard, then turned his gaze to Artyom.
His expression shifted, recognition flickering behind his narrowed eyes.
"And you… Order, isn't it?" The officer's lip curled.
"Normally we wouldn't interfere with the Order's business , but we can't have word of what we're doing here spreading."
He gestured to the soldiers.
"Take him ."
Rough hands grabbed Artyom, unhooking his chain from the line of prisoners. The others averted their gazes, unwilling to meet his eyes.
As he was hauled down a side corridor, Artyom glimpsed flickering lights and heavy gates in the distance, the muffled sounds of labor, of picks on stone, echoing faintly from beyond.
Whatever was happening here, the Reich intended to keep it buried.
And Artyom had no choice but to endure it — for now.
-------------
The clinking of chains echoed through the dim corridor, oil lamps casting twitching shadows against the cracked concrete walls. The air was thick with sweat, fear, and mildew. Men shuffled forward in a miserable line, some weeping softly, others staring blankly ahead — already lost in their minds.
Reich soldiers flanked the group, rifles at the ready, barking the occasional threat to keep the pace.
Artyom kept his head down, eyes scanning the flickering half-light. The chains bit into his wrists with every step.
A voice whispered beside him.
"Hey… psst… you. You're Order, right?"
Artyom glanced to his left. A lean, sharp-faced man with a Red Line armband, bruised but defiant, managed a crooked grin.
"Name's Pavel." He gave a slight nod.
"Didn't expect to see one from the order chained up ."
Artyom said nothing at first, but Pavel went on, speaking low.
"Look — our superiors might hate each other's guts, but you and me? Grunts like us gotta stick together. Metro's a damn graveyard for loners." He smirked, eyes sharp even in the gloom.
"You hear me, pal?"
Before Artyom could answer, a Reich soldier's voice cut through the murk.
"No talking!"
The butt of a rifle cracked against Pavel's shoulder, making him grunt in pain as another soldier shoved them apart in the line.
The march resumed.
After several minutes, the corridor opened into a larger, wider tunnel — and what lay ahead made Artyom's stomach tighten.
They emerged into a derelict station unlike any he'd seen in the Moscow Metro. The ceiling arched high above them, lined with faded metal panels. The walls were covered in long-dead advertisements for strange brands, and battered signs in a different language. Peeling murals of smiling pre-war families and sleek automobiles stained the walls like ancient relics.
An old, rusted railway map hung askew, its lines and station names unfamiliar.
Artyom's eyes flickered to a partially intact sign overhead:
"Malden Center Station"
The architecture felt alien — cleaner lines, different tilework, signs in that unknown languages, a sense of another city buried under layers of dust and ruin.
This wasn't the Moscow Metro.
And somehow, the Reich had found a way to it.
Soldiers herded the prisoners deeper inside. The oppressive silence returned, broken only by the steady clatter of chains and the occasional sob.
Pavel managed to catch Artyom's eye again, giving him a look that said we'll talk later.
Whatever this place was, Artyom could feel it — this wasn't just another prison.
This was a secret the Reich would kill to protect.