The air in the weather station was damp with the sour tang of rust and mildew, a scent that clung even after they'd sealed every vent and crack they could find.
Still, the wind moaned against the walls like a warning, growing more insistent as night crept in.
Inside, the flickering light of a salvaged lantern threw long shadows across the floor.
Scavenged blankets, old jackets, and sleeping bags had been arranged in quiet corners, stuffed under broken shelves or tucked against walls where it was warmer. It wasn't home, but it was enough for now.
Marcus was heavier than usual, each step a grunt of pain as Winter and Richard supported him, his bandaged arm cradled tightly against his chest. Zara moved ahead, clearing the path in silence.
Once inside the main room—an old monitoring hall full of dark consoles and broken switches—they eased Marcus down onto a padded corner made of folded coats and salvaged blankets.
"You good?" Richard asked, crouching beside him.
