Five of Richard's squad members lay broken and bleeding across the ruined floor. Owen, Lance, Mark, and Zia writhed in pain, each movement leaving smears of red on the cracked tiles, while Rhea lay motionless, her shallow breathing the only proof that she still clung to life.
Their groans wove through the stagnant air like a chorus of agony, a grim reminder that silence no longer meant peace. The room stank of iron, sweat, and the raw scent of desperation.
Arden was the only one still standing, though "standing" was a mercy of description. His knees trembled beneath him, his fingers slick with blood as he fumbled to treat the wounds that refused to close.
Every press of gauze, every shaky knot of a bandage drew a wince from him, but he kept going. The tremor in his breathing betrayed exhaustion that had long surpassed the limits of endurance.
