Cain's boots struck the steel floor with a metallic rhythm, echoing through the hollow corridors like a heartbeat. The Grid's hum had grown into a roar, each pulse sending vibrations through the spire's bones. Red warning lights blinked across panels, reflecting in the damp puddles that had collected along the edges of the maintenance corridors.
Susan followed close behind, each step careful, measured. Her ribs ached, but she didn't falter. Her rifle was steady, trained on the shadows that seemed to dance with every flicker of failing lights. "They're coming," she muttered, breath short and sharp, "closer than before."
Roselle's pistol remained raised, eyes sharp as knives. "Good," she said softly, "let them come. They'll see who owns the night."
