The day stretched thin inside the bunker.
Lucen sat cross-legged on the cot, flipping a coin between his fingers. The room smelled faintly of cold metal and antiseptic, not exactly cozy. The hum of ventilation carried on, a monotonous drone that pressed against his skull.
He flipped the coin higher, caught it again, watching the glint of dull brass tumble through the air.
'This is hell. Not the fire-and-brimstone kind. Worse. The kind where nothing happens, where silence eats at you until you'd welcome a monster tearing the ceiling open.'
The coin spun again, caught.
Down the hall, Varik's voice echoed, low and even, speaking into one of the comms. Lucen didn't catch the words, but the cadence was unmistakable: steady, clipped, authoritative. The kind of tone people listened to without arguing.
Lucen smirked faintly. "Top ten strongest, babysitting a guy on a cot. Bet that's not what the world thinks you do with your free time."
He tossed the coin again.
The bunker shuddered.
