The morning we moved out.
Harrison walked beside me, flanked by two of our better fighters.
Neither of them spoke. Neither did he. But I could feel the tension—shoulders stiff, jaw tight, eyes scanning every corner like he expected an ambush before we even arrived.
He wasn't wrong to be nervous.
General Arthur's territory stretched across the entire eastern block of the underground network, and the man had built himself a fortress around the one thing everyone else desperately needed—the water treatment plant.
Smart. Ugly, but smart. You don't negotiate with someone who controls the tap. You either submit, or you cut the pipe entirely.
We turned the corner into the main corridor leading to the plant entrance, and there they were.
Hundreds of them.
Lined up on both sides of the passage in full tactical gear, rifles held and ready.
The lights overhead were harsh and industrial, throwing shadows across every surface. The air smelled like gun oil and recycled water.
