Part 1 – Below the Surface
The sun was punishing that day — not hot like fire, but hot like breath. Muggy, heavy, humid. The kind of heat that soaked into your clothes and never let go.
Sein Maung tugged the strap of his tool bag higher on his shoulder as he walked, sweat already collecting along his back. He muttered under his breath, half to himself.
"Rats again. Gotta be careful this time… damn things getting bolder."
The city around him was loud in the way only Yangon could be — motorbike engines rattling by, vendors shouting over one another, the buzz of daily life refusing to die, even when the air felt like it might.
He arrived at the sewer tunnel mouth just as the rest of the crew did. A few of them were already wiping their foreheads with stained towels, their uniforms sticking to their skin like second flesh. No one complained, though. They never really did anymore. The stink of sewer had long since become part of who they were.
Bo Gyi, the oldest among them — crew lead, part-time philosopher, full-time grump — gave the usual morning bark.
"Alright! Same section as yesterday. No slacking, no wandering. We're in, we're out. Fast and clean, or as clean as this shithole allows."
Sein lit a cigarette and exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl through the humid air.
"For once, I agree with the old bastard. Work fast. Work smart. And if you see something that doesn't look right — walk the other way. Don't be a hero, don't be a fool."
He took another drag, the cigarette trembling slightly in his calloused fingers.
From behind him, the youngest in the crew — Kyaw Zay Ya, barely into his twenties and mouthy as hell — piped up with a grin.
"So if the rats start acting stupid again, what then? They gonna eat us alive or what?"
A few groans followed. Someone muttered, "What the hell kind of joke is that?"
Kyaw just laughed to himself, amused even as the others glared.
Tun Lin, a quiet man who always chewed betel and avoided eye contact, pointed down at the manhole cover.
"We doing this, or are we standing here sweating like pigs?"
Bo Gyi grunted. "Let's go to hell, boys."
—
Down the Hatch
The metal ladder creaked beneath their weight. One by one, the workers dropped into the tunnel, their headlamps flickering against walls slick with moss and something thicker. The scent hit them instantly — wet rot, ammonia, something metallic underneath it all.
They didn't flinch.
They were used to this.
Their boots sloshed in shallow water. Echoes of footsteps bounced off curved concrete. The tunnel sighed with every drip.
They broke into pairs. Tasks were assigned — clearing debris, checking pressure lines, logging new erosion. Same as always.
As Sein dragged aside a chunk of rubble with his gloved hands, Bo Gyi came up beside him quietly, unusually somber.
"That guy who went missing last night... Any word from his family?"
Sein didn't look up.
"No. His wife filed a report this morning. Says he never came home. Phone dead. Whole crew thought he left with the rest of us. But... something about that tunnel yesterday, Bo Gyi. It didn't feel right."
Bo Gyi grunted, staring into the dark ahead.
"I've worked these sewers longer than anyone. There's always been rats. Always been bad smells, strange noises, shadows you don't want to follow. But lately… this is different. Something's wrong down here."
Sein gave a dry laugh, though his eyes didn't match the sound.
"Come on, old man. Don't go soft on me now."
"No," Bo Gyi muttered. "I'm not going soft. I'm getting a bad feeling. A deep one."
Sein was about to speak again when a distant splash echoed from further down the tunnel. Sharp. Unnatural.
The crew turned, flashlights cutting through the gloom — but there was nothing.
Just black water, and the distant sound of something skittering… too fast… too low.
Part 2 – Signs
The tunnels breathed.
A slow, wet echo followed every step Sein Maung and his team made through the sewer line, where the air had begun to rot with more than just the usual filth. They'd been working for over an hour — shoveling debris, inspecting corroded pipes, logging strange pressure readings — and something in the silence had shifted.
"Rats've been too quiet lately," Tun Lin muttered, sweeping his flashlight along the far curve of the wall. "I don't like it. Not one bit."
"Just keep working," Sein replied, eyes forward. "The faster we're done, the faster we get to see daylight again."
"Agreed," Maung Dee chimed in, wiping sweat from his forehead with a stained rag. "No rats means no problems. Just bad smells and wet boots."
But then a voice broke through the stillness — sharp, urgent.
"Hey! Guys! Come check this out!"
It was Kyaw Zay Ya.
The crew gathered at the bend in the tunnel where the youngest among them stood, hunched near the edge of a shallow runoff canal. Water sloshed gently, but floating in it was something worse than garbage.
Dead rats. Dozens of them.
Bloated. Twisted. Skinned in places.
Their flesh looked like it had boiled from the inside out.
Tun Lin turned pale, backing away with a hand over his mouth.
"Shit… I might actually throw up."
Bo Gyi squinted, stepping closer, face grim.
"YCDC dumps poison in here sometimes. Kills 'em off in waves. Makes 'em swell and burst."
"No," Sein said flatly, staring hard at the corpses. "That's not poison."
He crouched beside the edge of the water and pointed.
"Look at the skin. It's splitting. Bubbling under the surface. Like something changed in them before they died."
His voice dropped a note lower.
"And their eyes… you see that? Still glowing."
Before anyone could respond, a wet skitter echoed behind them.
They all froze.
A single rat — still alive — bolted from the shadows. It ran unnaturally fast, then vanished into a pipe.
"What the hell?" Kyaw said, scanning the ceiling with his torch. "Hey! Someone there?"
No response. Just the drip-drip of the tunnel.
He turned back to the dead rats and muttered under his breath.
"These things… they're not normal."
"Or maybe they never were," Sein replied quietly.
Above them, unnoticed, dozens of rats darted through the upper pipes — their slick bodies weaving in and out of the shadows. Some chased each other. Some feasted on the bloated corpses of their own. The ceiling above pulsed with movement.
But down below, the crew kept working.
Late Afternoon
The city glowed with golden decay as the bus rumbled through the downtown streets. Zaw Min sat by the window, elbow resting on the ledge, watching the fading light spill across crumbling buildings and tangled wires. Yangon was alive in its own strange rhythm — motorbikes buzzing, horns blaring, children shouting in narrow alleys.
He pulled out his old Nokia from his pocket. The screen blinked.
5:27 PM.
He scrolled through his contacts and pressed call.
A few rings. Then her voice.
"Hey Thiri. I'm coming home early today. Boss gave us the rest of the day off. No idea why, but I'm not complaining."
A pause. A soft voice on the other end. He nodded slowly.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'll be back before dark. Don't wait too long for me. I'll bring something."
He hung up and pocketed the phone, exhaling through his nose. He didn't smile, but his shoulders eased slightly.
The conductor called out from the front.
"Next stop! Milestone coming up!"
Zaw Min gave a tired nod and stood.
"Alright. This is me."
5:40 PM
The streets felt different in the evening. Familiar shops looked older. The shadows stretched longer. Even the air seemed thicker.
Zaw Min walked slowly past the tea shop from that morning — now quieter, fewer people inside. The men still sat around, still laughed, but the weight of the day had dulled their noise. He glanced once but didn't stop.
His thoughts drifted.
Where's Sein? Still down there?
Hope he's okay…
A gust of wind passed through the street, kicking up dust and flower petals. He stopped.
Across from him stood a small shop — cracked awning, plastic buckets, and wilted plants by the door.
A flower shop.
Something in him pulled.
He crossed the street and stepped inside.
The doorbell didn't chime.
Part 3 – Something in the Dark
6:10 PM
Zaw Min stepped out of the flower shop, a modest bouquet cradled in one arm. The petals were slightly wilted — not perfect, but still warm with meaning. He exhaled through his nose, the air thick with post-rain humidity, and began his walk home.
Then came the noise.
Sirens — wailing, insistent, multiplying. Police trucks and ambulances roared down the street, lights flashing like strobe warnings. People stopped to stare, phones already out.
Zaw turned to watch as the procession passed, his brows furrowed.
"What the hell's going on?" he muttered.
He didn't know it yet, but something had already gone terribly wrong.
Elsewhere in downtown – 6:17 PM
A phone call ended with venom.
"Okay, that's it. We're done. Don't call me again," the young woman spat, stabbing her thumb against the screen and tossing the phone into her bag.
Ei Thandar stood alone in the alley near her office's back entrance, still trembling with frustration. The contact name she'd just deleted was saved under "Love."
"Delete. Delete. You piece of shit," she muttered, anger burning in her chest.
Then — a sound. Wet. Tearing. Quietly animalistic.
She paused.
A figure sat hunched at the end of the alley, barely illuminated by the flickering streetlight. An older man, shirt stained and unmoving — bent over something.
"Hello… sir?" Ei called out, her voice cautious. "Are you okay?"
No answer.
She took a hesitant step forward.
"Sir… what are you—?"
The man slowly turned toward her.
His mouth was soaked in blood. A mangled dog carcass hung limp in his hands.
Red streaked down his chin. Bits of fur clung to his teeth.
Ei clapped a hand over her mouth, stumbling backward.
She ran.
Heart pounding, lungs burning, she bolted through the narrow alleys, cutting between shops, until she reached her apartment building. An elderly neighbor looked up as she passed.
"Ei Thandar—good evening!"
But Ei didn't stop. She sprinted up the stairs, hands shaking, digging through her bag for her keys.
She fumbled. Dropped them.
"Come on, come on," she whispered, sweat dripping down her temple. Her fingers finally grasped the metal, and she shoved the key into the door, slamming it shut behind her.
Only then did she let herself breathe.
Only then did she realize her hands were trembling.
"What… the hell did I just see?" she whispered to the dark room, back pressed to the door, heart still racing.
7:10 PM
Back in Hlaing Township, Zaw Min reached the front steps of his apartment building, flowers in hand. He climbed the stairs slowly. The hall was quiet — too quiet.
When he opened the door, warm smells from the kitchen greeted him — fried shallots, steamed rice. It should have brought peace. Instead, it made the silence feel heavier.
He set his backpack down and sat in his usual spot near the small table by the wall. His wife, Thiri, peeked from the kitchen.
"Going to eat dinner?" she asked gently.
"Later. You can eat first," he said. "I… bought you something."
He held up the bouquet. Not grand, but thoughtful.
Thiri came out slowly, her eyes flicking to the small wooden chair in the corner — the one that hadn't been used since their son passed.
She sat beside Zaw and took his hand. He didn't speak, but the weight in his eyes said everything. She squeezed his hand tighter.
"You're the strongest man I know," she whispered. "The best father our son could have had. You did everything you could. We know that."
Zaw broke.
For the first time in two years, his composure cracked.
He pulled her into a hug and held on like she was the last piece of solid ground in a world that kept sinking.
"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…" he sobbed.
And in the corner of the room, the old radio played a quiet, sorrowful tune — as if the city itself was grieving with them.
11:23 PM
The crash woke them both.
Glass. Metal. Screams.
Zaw Min bolted upright, sweat on his brow. He reached for his phone.
11:23 PM.
"What was that?" Thiri asked, sitting up beside him.
Zaw was already out of bed, walking to the window.
Outside, red and blue lights danced across the street. Something was happening. Something bad.
And it was only just beginning.