Red Key: Boneworks Train Station

He found the entrance: a torn security gate, its "AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY" sign hanging by a single rivet. Beyond it, the conveyor belts sat frozen, a parade of forgotten suitcases mummified in dust. The smell was worse here—sweet decay and ozone.

He was here for one thing: the red key.

At twenty meters, he dove. The Crate Cracker’s fist slammed down where he’d been, cratering the floor. Victor rolled, came up firing—this time aiming for the hydraulic tubes on its knee. The first few rounds ricocheted. The seventh found its mark. Black fluid sprayed. The brute stumbled, bellowing, and crashed onto one knee.

Thud. Thud. Thud. It charged.