The rain came again—cold, angry, and unrelenting. It fell in sheets over the ruined district, washing the blood from shattered stone and fractured metal. Cain stood beneath it, unmoving, his blade half-buried in the cracked earth. Every breath came out as mist, every heartbeat slow and deliberate. The night stank of ozone and gunpowder.
Around him, the remnants of the assault team gathered. Roselle leaned against a collapsed wall, one arm slung limp across her chest. Susan crouched beside Steve, patching a burn along his shoulder with the last of their medical gel. Hunter paced the edge of the rubble field, eyes sweeping the horizon as if the smoke might form into something solid—something coming for them.
"They won't stop," Hunter said finally. His voice was low, rough. "The Daelmonts still control the docks. If they reroute the convoys before dawn, everything we took here means nothing."
Cain's answer came after a long silence. "Then we hit the docks before dawn."
