The wind was thin this far west—cut by debris, buildings, and the tight compression of broken city blocks. The group moved quiet, narrow paths threading them between abandoned storefronts and rusting husks of old cars. Ahead, low concrete walls curved in toward the prison's shack-side entrance. Smaller than the main gates, but guarded just the same.
Jin motioned them into cover near the back of a collapsed pharmacy.
Ryu leaned in, voice low. "That's the route?"
Jin nodded. "Runs along the wall just enough to keep us hidden. Guard rotation's slow."
They moved again—Hanuel and Seul taking flank, Joon hovering overhead on his disk, barely a whisper from the hum of it. Yujin slipped low under the shadows of a tilted light post, her steps too quiet for even the dust to stir.
Then they saw him.
A broad-shouldered man leaned against the side of the auxiliary shack, the crooked line of a cigarette glowing in the dark.
