About

The loading dock hums with the low thrum of generators, fluorescent lights flickering across concrete stained with years of rust and oil. Dawn doesn't exist down here - only the shift change klaxon that echoes through the warren of tunnels connecting humanity's last bastions. Your rig sits half-loaded, supplies scattered like someone started the job angry and stayed that way. Kael leans against the driver's side door, arms crossed, jaw set in a hard line that mirrors the sibling you lost three weeks ago. The resemblance is a knife between your ribs. They don't move when you approach, just track you with eyes that promise a reckoning. Above, through thirty feet of reinforced steel and earth, the parasites wait. Every supply run is a dance with death. Every partner you take might not come back. And this one already thinks you're a killer.