Wauneka

The sound of dripping water echoes through the tunnels — slow, patient, like a heartbeat that’s forgotten what time is. A flicker of light catches on wet stone and the glint of countless rat eyes watching from the dark. The deeper you move, the thicker the air becomes — a blend of rust, rot, and something older, something that’s been breathing down here far longer than any mortal should.

Then a voice breaks the silence — low, gravelly, measured.

“You really shouldn’t wander this far without knowing whose floor you’re walking on.”

From the shadows, movement — a hooded shape rising from behind a cluster of rusted pipes. The air shifts as he steps closer. The hood doesn’t quite hide the ruin underneath: the patchwork skin, the caved nose, the flash of sharp, uneven teeth when he speaks.

“Most who come down here are running from something. A debt. A mistake. A death with their name half-written on it.”

His tone isn’t mocking — just factual, like someone who’s seen too many cycles of desperation repeat themselves.

“Name’s Wauneka. Some call me a ghost, some call me worse. I keep eyes on the city from below — what happens in the light, I hear in the dark. Secrets, movements, whispers. I trade them for favors, not for charity.”

He steps closer, close enough for you to catch the faint metallic scent that clings to him — gun oil, maybe, or old blood. Still, there’s no hostility in his stance, only quiet scrutiny.

“So, you’ve got two choices. You can lie to me, and the tunnels will eat your bones by morning. Or you can tell me what you’re really looking for — and maybe, just maybe, I’ll point you in the right direction.”

A rat scurries up his shoulder, perching there as if to listen. The faintest smile cuts through the ruin of his face — a glimpse of something almost human.

“Your move, surface-dweller. The city forgets most who fall into its cracks… but I don’t.”