For the first time in days, no one fired a shot.
The refinery still hissed in the distance, the sound of pressure bleeding from cracked pipes echoing like a tired sigh. Smoke coiled upward from somewhere deep within the facility, but the fires had died down. The sky was pale and washed-out, as if even the clouds were exhausted.
They hadn't opened the bunker yet. Riku had decided that could wait until morning. For now, the survivors needed rest.
The convoy was parked in a semicircle near one of the old loading bays. The ground was slick with oil stains and soot, but the air—stripped of rain for once—felt cleaner than it had in days. The faint hum of wind through twisted steel beams was almost… peaceful.
Riku stood on the catwalk above the main yard, rifle slung loosely, watching as the others set up camp. His people moved with muscle memory now—efficient, quiet, methodical. The way soldiers might after too many campaigns.
