The morning haze inside Last Hope's deployment bay was artificially diffused—neither warm nor cold, a neutral tone meant to calm the nerves of operatives about to cross the threshold into the unknown.
Kaela adjusted the magnetic seal on her outer vest, eyes flicking across the tactical overlay projected in front of her. Her lips were set in a thin line—not from anxiety, but calculation.
"Convoy ID: XC-9. Last transmission 18 minutes ago," she murmured. "Still pinging, but the route projection's degraded."
Behind her, the hum of the loading dock intensified as Zeyna hoisted her pack into the armored transport. "You're saying we're flying blind?"
Kaela shook her head. "No. Not blind. Just… squinting."
Arven checked his blade harness one last time before securing the clasp on his left shoulder. His movements were precise—sharpened. The old tension was gone. He didn't speak, but his presence steadied the air around him.
