Enter the Sewer Kingdom.

The first thing that hits you is the light.

Not flickering fluorescents or candle-stub desperation, but real, steady illumination—warm bulbs strung along the walls, diffused behind scavenged plastic panels, casting everything in a soft yellow haze. Enough to see without squinting, not so much to feel exposed.

Then the noise settles in. Voices. Not loud, but overlapping. Distant chatter, metal clinking against metal, something that might be a laugh, and something else that definitely isn't. It hums in your chest before your ears catch up. Life. Underground, but unmistakably alive.

The corridor opens into something wider—just a holding space, really. Reinforced doors, sandbags, old lockers lining one wall. Security checkpoint. A woman in a leather jacket nods to the kid, doesn’t ask your name. Just studies your face like she’s memorizing it.

Her hand rests casually on the grip of a rifle slung over her shoulder.

The kid taps a small button by the next door. A tone sounds, mechanical and low, followed by a sharp buzz. The door clicks, and this time he pushes it open without looking back.

You step into the guts of it.

It sprawls.

Corridors branch like roots. Some slope down, others arch up. Makeshift stairs, bolted scaffolding, old sewer pipe ladders repurposed into handrails. Everything looks patched, rebuilt, welded into place by someone who had time, tools, and nowhere better to be. You smell oil, ozone, and faintly—bread.

A corridor to the left opens into a barracks. Not much to see, but you catch rows of bunk beds through the gap—blankets, footlockers, the low murmur of a half-asleep conversation. A young woman walks by with a towel over her shoulder, nods at the kid, gives you a look that’s somewhere between curious and suspicious.

“Don’t mind them,” the kid mutters. “We don’t get a lot of new faces.”

He leads you down a narrower path, this one with pipes overhead dripping slow condensation. There’s graffiti here, chalked symbols and arrows. Not for style. Directional markers, codes, maybe something else. You pass a stairwell that seems to go nowhere—just up into darkness—but the kid doesn’t even glance at it.

You start to get the sense this place is bigger than you thought. A lot bigger.

“How many people live here?” you ask.

He shrugs. “Enough.”

Helpful.

You pass what must be the mess hall next. A wide room, long tables, a few steam trays still out, their contents mostly gone. It smells like lentils and something vaguely tomato-based. People eat, talk, or sit hunched over notebooks and gear. One guy is asleep with a wrench in his lap and grease across his face.

Another woman glances up as you pass, narrows her eyes, then returns to her stew like she decided you weren’t worth shooting. For now.

It’s not a camp. Not a militia outpost. Not a commune, either. It feels… worn in. Like a colony that stopped waiting to be rescued and just started building instead.

Eventually, the kid stops in front of a steel door with a window cut out. No guards this time, just a faded red sticker beside the handle. The kind they used to use for package tracking. It’s been peeled and stuck back on too many times to read the label.

He knocks twice, then steps back.

“Cortez is inside,” he says.
He doesn’t wait for a reply. Just turns and walks away.

You stare at the door. No sound from the other side.

You reach for the handle. Pause.

Then push it open. And there he is.

Cortez.

Older, yeah. Not by much, but enough. A little more filled out in the shoulders, a little more lined around the eyes. His hair’s grown long, pulled back in a loose knot. There’s a faint scar on his temple that wasn’t there before.

He looks up from a table covered in maps and what looks like a modified radio rig. The light hits him just right.

“Carlos,” he says, voice rougher than you remember. Not surprised. Just... relieved. Like you’re the last piece of a plan finally sliding into place.

“Took you long enough.”

For a second, neither of you moves.

Cortez takes you in. All of you. Eyes flick from your face to your posture to your hands like he’s checking for missing pieces. You do the same. He’s taller now, wider, skin rougher in places where you remember smooth. Not broken, but reinforced. Titan frame, definitely. But he carries it like someone who never forgot the weight of the boy he used to be.

Then, like gravity snapped back on, he moves.

A stride across the room and suddenly his arms are around you, pulling tight.

You don’t think. You just grab back and return the hug.

Cortez steps back and rubs a hand through his hair. His eyes are shinier than either of you acknowledges.

“You look like shit,” he says.

“Yeah, missed you too.”

That gets a grin. Not the cocky one from before. This one’s real. Tired, crooked, full of relief.

He waves you toward one of the chairs. “Sit. We’ve got time. Not a lot, but some.”

You lower yourself onto the edge of a metal stool. The table in front of you is covered in maps, markers, radio components, and something that looks suspiciously like a repurposed microwave shell.

Cortez moves with purpose, sliding clutter aside, clearing space.

“You hungry?” he asks. “They made too much rice again.”

You shake your head. “Picked up gas station jerky on the way.”

“Classic.” He taps one knuckle on the table, then lowers himself into the seat across from you. He’s still watching you. That hasn’t stopped.

“Not gonna lie,” he says. “I’ve been thinking about this moment for a long time. Rehearsed it a few times. Usually involved less grime and more dramatic lighting.”

You smirk. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“You never disappoint. You just... take your damn time.”

Silence again, but it sits easy now. The way it used to, between missions, between nightmares.

“Still go by Carlos?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Ryan. Mostly.”

Cortez nods like that makes sense.

“I’ve got fifty-seven people under my roof,” he says after a beat. “Half of them kids. Half of them ex-somethings. Patriots, engineers, one lady used to be a math teacher, I think. They follow orders, but only because I don’t give bad ones.”

You glance around the room again.

Now that the reunion high has worn off, you start noticing more. The gear tucked under the table. A rifle propped in the corner, recently cleaned. A folded vest, edges fraying. Stack of ration slips stamped with an emblem you don’t recognize.

Cortez has been busy.

And not just with maps.

You’ve heard stories. Cortez is now the de facto king of the underground economy in the Houston Dead Zone. The kind of work that keeps the resistance funded but gets people killed.

He doesn’t offer an apology for any of it. You wouldn’t want one.

You lean back slightly. Let the silence hang again. Just long enough to say: I’m not judging.

He reads it. Of course he does.

Cortez drags a hand down his face, then scratches at the knot of scar tissue along his jaw.

"So what happened to the rest of the crew?"

“I figured you’d ask.”

“Zee’s still with me. Goes by Jinx now. She’s the one who rerouted that vaccine drop last year. Kept it from going to a civilian testing site.” He shakes his head, a little impressed. “Scary smart. Still won’t eat lentils, though.”

You smirk.

Cortez catches it and adds, “And yeah, she still hates you.”

You nod once. “Consistency’s important.”

A breath escapes from him that might’ve been a laugh.

Then he looks at you again. This time, his voice dips.

"Jules... he was never the same after that grenade hit him. Started calling himself Jigsaw. He's more... logistics. People, mostly.”

You catch that. Just the slightest hesitation before “people.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and you don’t ask.

Not right away.

You look down at the maps again. Let the silence breathe.

“Sounds like they’ve found their niches,” you say carefully.

Cortez nods without meeting your eyes. “Yeah. They're good at what they do, and ruthless when they need to be. Which is most of the time these days.”

He finally looks at you again. “But they’ve earned the trust. Built their own networks. I don’t get in the way.”

Fair enough.

“Your new crew,” you say. “They’re not from our group.”

“No,” Cortez says. “Second wave. Facility north of Birmingham. We cracked it open a year after you vanished.”

“How many?”

“Too many. Some didn’t make it. Some made it but wish they hadn’t. But the ones who stuck around? They’re good. Raw, but good.”

You think of the kid from the hill. The **** bravado. The oversized frame.

“Titans?”

“Most of them. Easier to grow. Harder to hide.”

You nod, slow. “And Simone?”

He hesitates, just a beat.

“She’s based out of here. But also does a lot of work for operations. Does her own thing most days, but she’s solid. Reliable. ”

You lean forward slightly. “So what made you call me in?”

Cortez looks down for a moment, rubbing the heel of his palm against his temple like he’s sorting through how much to say.

“Well... that girl you're looking for.” he says.

You go still.

“She went missing just a few days ago, right? Out near Marble Falls?”

You nod slowly. “Mariana said they got separated. She went to ask about farm work. When she got back, her daughter was gone.”

Cortez rubs at the back of his neck, like the words are heavier than they should be. “One of our scouts picked up chatter—Russian smugglers moved through that area. Low-profile grab. Young girl, maybe eighteen. No ID. Fit the description.”

Your gut twists.

“She wasn’t taken by ICE,” he says. “The Russians got her.”

Silence.

You don’t move. Don’t speak.

Cortez leans in. “And that’s the problem. If it was ICE, we might’ve had a shot at tracing her through detention logs or transport manifests. But the Russians don’t bother with that. She’s already been sold, most likely.”

Your voice comes out flat. “To who?”

Cortez shakes his head. “We don’t know yet. That’s where the favor comes in.”

You let the words settle. They land sharp.

“There’s a lab the Russians are running,” he says. “Outside Baytown. Industrial footprint. Used to be a plastics factory. We’ve been tracking activity there for months. Weapons. Narcotics. And human cargo.”

You nod once. “And you want to hit it.”

Cortez shrugs.

“We’re going to, but we need intel first. Layout, defenses, staff routines. We grabbed one of their chemists, tried to flip him. But he won’t talk."

The way he says that lets you know there's something more.

“Simone's good. I’ve seen what she can do. Why couldn’t she break him?”

Cortez leans against the edge of the table, arms crossed, eyes narrowing just slightly. He doesn’t dodge.

“She tried,” he says. “Spent hours with him. Got nothing but silence.”

You watch him.

“The guy’s wife and daughter are being held hostage. Russians told him if he talks, they’ll make sure the bodies get mailed back in pieces. He believes them. And he’s willing to die before he risks it.”

That lands heavier than you expect.

Cortez doesn’t soften it. “She's tough. But she’s from the second batch. The newer group… they didn’t go through what we did. They’re not built like that.”

You nod once. You’d suspected.

He exhales. “Honestly? I think her heart just wasn’t in it.”

There’s no bitterness in his voice. Just fact.

You give a small, humorless smile. “You figured I might not have that problem.”

Cortez shrugs. “I figured Spider might be able to get through in ways she couldn’t.”

“I don’t know if the girl’s there. But if she was taken by their crew, it’s the best shot we’ve got. You help us crack the chemist, we raid the place, maybe we find a lead. A name. A route. Something.”

You nod again, slower this time.

“All right,” you say. “I’ll talk to him.”

Cortez relaxes, just slightly. “Thanks, man.”

You push up from the table. “I’ll need a computer. And a room.”

Cortez stands with you. “Already set aside. It’s yours.”

You don’t wait for a guide. You just walk.