The final corridor leading to the engine room was stifling and dim, with mechanical vibrations and roaring sounds incessantly drilling into one's brain. The lights on the walls flickered unsteadily as if encountering an unsteady airflow, the flames inside the lampshades quivering and twinkling.
But all this was nothing compared to the intensifying sense of dissonance and tension that brought about oppression and the dizzying tears in one's thoughts.
Belazov controlled his footsteps, controlled his expression.
The closer he got to the deepest part of the Sea Swallow, the more he steadied his pace, his expression as calm as usual.
Crew members lingered in the corridor, talking. They wore strange leather "coats," their facial skin wrinkled and folded, their voices sounding like buzzing noise.
Belazov walked towards them, telling himself that these crew members were his own soldiers, yet he could not recall any of their names.