The signal pierced through the earpiece like a bullet to the temple:
"Enter."
Altair's voice came through the mask, steady and emotionless. It wasn't a command—it was a statement. As if everything had already happened.
We stood before the main gates of Oblivion Prison, sunken deep into the desolate wasteland. A concrete bastion buried in earth and steel—more a sarcophagus than a building. A resting place for those the world had long declared dead.
Outside—high walls lined with razor wire, watchtowers, long-range turrets, searchlights, and patrolling guards.
Inside—seven floors: four down, three up.
And somewhere in that abyss… was Dmitriy Volkov.
I looked down. My fingers, wrapped in gloves, twitched. I inhaled.
We all donned our masks.
A second of silence—then the ground trembled.
From beyond the slope, the first wave of Umbra surged forward, a mass of darkness. Silent.
No shouting. Only steel, blood, and their shadows.
The floodlights stuttered, flickered.
