The building still smelled of smoke.
Even after hours, the air clung to my clothes like something alive, thick with burnt wood and oil. When I stepped inside, the ash drifted around me, floating in lazy circles before settling again on the floor. My boots made soft crunching sounds over what used to be desks, crates, and plans.
It wasn't the first time I'd seen a place end like this, but this time felt different.
The fire hadn't just eaten wood and paper. It had eaten silence.
I walked deeper into the hideout, the mask on my face cracked along the edge from the fight earlier. The others had already left, but I stayed behind. Something about the fire felt wrong, like it had burned too clean.
I knelt near a pile of ash. Some metal pieces had melted together into a single shape — tools, maybe, or gears from our supply cart. When I picked one up, the heat still lingered faintly against my glove.
