The voice came through clear.
Charles's wing lowered slightly, tension easing just enough.
The woman in his arms didn't notice.
She was still breaking apart.
"Let me go! Let me go to my baby!!"
Her voice cracked, rising into something raw as she struggled again, weaker now but no less desperate.
The officer stepped fully into view.
Mid-thirties.
Close-cropped hair, sweat lining his brow, jaw tight under the strain of everything happening around them.
His uniform was intact but marked—dust, small tears, signs of recent contact. His grip on the rifle remained steady.
He gave Charles a quick nod.
"Sir. The chopper is ready. No attacks have targeted the roof yet, but—"
He stopped.
Mid-sentence.
His posture stiffened.
So did Charles.
Both of them heard something through the comms at the same time.
Don hadn't yet.
Because he was still listening outward—
For the infected.
Then—
Winter communicated.
"Don. The female infected is making its way up to the roof."
