The world finally seemed to slow.
After what felt like endless hours of thunder, smoke, and blood, the roar of battle began to fade into something quieter—something less furious, but no less grim.
Gunfire tapered off to sporadic bursts. The deep thumps of artillery grew distant, only firing in short, precise salvos. The skies, once blotted out by monsters and tracer fire, now hung heavy and gray, littered only with drifting ash and blackened wings.
Inside the MOA Complex, Thomas stood with both hands braced against the command table, his eyes scanning the updated tactical map.
"West sector clear," Marcus announced, his voice hoarse but steady. "North sector mopping up stragglers. Eastern perimeter secured. No breaches recorded."
Thomas straightened slowly, the ache in his shoulders finally catching up with him. He hadn't moved from the command center for hours—he hadn't needed to. His presence was the spine keeping everything upright.
