[Camp Alpha, Sector Four Perimeter — Year 3 Post-Collapse, 06:43 AM]
The heavy iron grating slammed back against the concrete and the crash split the freezing morning silence clean open.
Ren hauled his upper body over the lip of the vertical shaft, muscles bunching hard as he dragged the three titanium filtration cores up after him. Seventy-four pounds each. Aerospace-grade. Currently slick with dark blue Benthic Weaver blood that had begun to congeal in the cold and was making the tactical webbing straps shift in ways that were quietly, persistently annoying. 1
He stood, boots planting on cracked asphalt, and the surface hit him all at once.
