In truth, no weapons had been raised at all.
The silence that followed this realization was heavier than the iron scent of blood.
The corridor stretched endlessly, shadows clinging to the walls like watchful phantoms. Yet the presence of the soldiers made the air dense, oppressive, as though every breath carried the weight of a thousand unspoken threats.
The troops had arrived in perfect formation, their boots striking the ground in unison, echoing like war drums in a temple of judgment.
They lined themselves into two neat rows, flawless in posture, each man a reflection of the other—as though carved from the same mold.
Every soldier held his weapon in a showy and razor-sharp way, the barrels angled slightly downward, fingers grazing triggers in a manner that screamed readiness.
It was not the stance of peacekeepers, nor the restless fidgeting of amateurs. It was the calm precision of predators—ready, at any second, to strike and fire at any enemy who dared to step closer.
