The sun hung low behind a veil of dirty gray clouds when the call for the debrief went out.
Inside the MOA Complex's fortified briefing hall—a retrofitted cinema turned war room—dozens of soldiers filed in slowly. Squad leaders, fireteam commanders, Shadow operatives, artillery officers. They came with dirt still streaked across their faces, blood on their uniforms, and exhaustion etched deep into their bones.
The lights were dim. A single overhead projector cast a flickering blue hologram of Metro Manila's burning ruins onto the battered wall at the front of the room.
Thomas stood there, waiting silently, hands clasped behind his back.
When the last of the officers found a seat—or simply stood leaning against the walls, too tired to care—Marcus stepped forward and killed the chatter with a short, sharp whistle.
"Attention on deck."
The room stiffened.
Thomas didn't waste time.
