The Undergarden swallows light like it's hungry for it. Bioluminescent spores drift through the dark like slow embers, casting everything in sickly blue-green. Your field notes are half-filled, three new species catalogued, the air thick with rot and damp stone. Solen was mid-sentence — something about the gill-fungi on the eastern wall — and then the torch died. Then the silence. Not quiet. Silence. The kind that has weight. Your partner is gone. But something in the dark ahead is humming. Solen's hum. The nervous one.