The surface had barely begun to breathe. The streets of Seoul were littered with debris, shattered glass glinting under the weak morning sun. Smoke still drifted from collapsed buildings, curling like gray serpents into the air. Lin stood atop the ruined command post, scanning the horizon, eyes narrowing against the neon glare that still flickered from half-functional billboards.
"This calm… it's too quiet," Keller muttered behind him, hands resting on his rifle. His gaze swept the skyline like a predator. "Every sensor I've checked says nothing's moving. And that worries me more than anything."
Lin didn't answer immediately. His scanner hummed faintly against his chest, an old reflex. He adjusted the frequency filter, running it through the same parameters that had guided them through the Archive's first collapse. The hum spiked — subtle, almost imperceptible, but unmistakable.
