The dust rolled heavy across the floor—thick, choking, alive with static.
Han squinted through it, body tensed, one hand hovering near the holstered weapon under his shirt. His eyes narrowed, jaw tight. "There's someone there…" he muttered.
Kasanda, crouched over Abraham, shifted his weight and lifted the man to his feet. Despite Abraham's size, the movement was smooth, practiced. Abraham coughed, waving a hand in front of his face as the haze thinned.
"What the hell was that?" he barked, eyes wide.
Kasanda didn't answer. His focus was locked forward—toward the mangled helicopter resting in the wreckage of wall and marble.
The guards who could still stand had formed up again, weapons raised. Barrels aimed at the twisted hulk of metal.
The rotors had stopped spinning. Flames licked quietly from under the cracked engine housing, sending low waves of heat across the ruined hall.
Everyone waited.
The last of the dust settled, falling like faint ash.
Nothing moved.
