Arthur Vance's execution order didn't trigger a bomb. It triggered the rest of the roster.
The heavy loading ramp of the cloaked dropship lowered further, the hydraulics hissing sharply in the freezing air. Three figures walked to the jagged edge. They weren't massive, spliced juggernauts like the carnivore bleeding out on the concrete below. They were sleek, clad in tailored black tactical weave that looked more like high-end corporate athletic wear than armor.
They dropped from the ramp into the ruins of the 101 Highway. They didn't crater the asphalt. They landed silently, their armor absorbing the kinetic descent. They radiated the arrogant, bored energy of star athletes being forced to get off the bench because the rookies blew a massive lead.
