Eleven seconds.
At the edge of Eloy's vision, the HUD timer flickered amber, counting down the siphon pulse. Below, thirty meters of darkness hummed with the intake current's subsonic growl, a vibration that traveled up through the soles of his boots and the rusted rungs against his palms.
Above, Isolde's hands moved from rung to rung, her lightning flickering faintly, illuminating the spiral shaft, her hair streaming upward in the residual pull. Above her, Maya descended with her back to the wall, the satchel of ledgers pressed tight against her hip, each movement precise and wind-braced.
[ SIPHON PULSE: 11 SECONDS ]
[coldfront44]: tight frame. no margin.
[noob_slayer88]: bro is gonna miss the rung
Eloy's boots hit the next rusted metal bar. Flakes of iron grit bit into his palm. His ankle throbbed, a familiar numb protest from the scree slope buckle. He counted.
"Ten."
