The alarms blared. Strobing red light painted the walls. The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of combat boots grew from a distant tremor to a ground-shaking thunder. They were coming. Yet Pierre just stood there—a ghost in a stolen, ill-fitting uniform.
So this is what it feels like, he thought. All that crap I gave Jack Steelheart for his main-character-luck, and here I am, the accidental star of a base-wide manhunt learning about a sob story.
He could flee. Melt back into the port town, find another ship, another life. But the memory of Alyssa's haunted face was an anchor, dragging him not toward the exit, but deeper into the lion's den.
A squad of marines rounded the corner, their leader barking orders into this world's version of a radio. Pierre pressed himself against the wall, adopting the posture of a nervous sailor caught in the chaos. The squad leader's eyes swept over him without recognition—just another face in Navy blue.
"Section C is clear, sir. Moving to Section D."
