The moment the dust began to settle inside the ruined apartment, the air hung thick with tension, crackling like static before a storm.
The walls were barely standing, splintered and cracked, gaping holes in the foundation letting in slivers of light from the ruined city outside.
The shattered ground still echoed with the memories of destruction, and yet it was not finished. Not yet.
Vonjo, blood splattered across his pale face like war paint, stood in the middle of the rubble, his breath even, his madness still coiled behind a mask of calm.
Around him, the figures began to reform—an army reborn not of flesh, but of memory and curse.
The Sand Man had reanimated again, tall and grainy, his body flowing like a sentient dune, fragments of bone and dust swirling around him like a storm trapped in human shape.
Around him, the Reanimations rose—some twitching with puppet-like rigidity, others more fluid, conscious, eyes gleaming with flickers of former souls.
