"What's—" The world kinked. Edges tore. The street peeled away like a decal and Rhett was back on sand, under the iron dome, mouth full of blood and dust.
A hole yawned in the stadium wall—rebar showing like ribs, concrete chunks still falling. People screamed. Someone tried to hold in someone else's insides and failed. A woman without a hand wept into her lap. Someone kept calling for "Eli," then stopped.
Smoke thinned. The golden armor knit itself from nothing, plates sliding into place without a sound. But something was wrong. Grand's shadow lagged a half-second behind his movements, and when his boot touched sand, no impression formed.
Rhett's eyes narrowed. "Melissa."
The armored figure went rigid.
For a moment, nothing. Then the illusion flickered—edges pixelating, the golden sheen stuttering like a bad video feed. The massive frame wavered, revealing glimpses of a smaller figure beneath before snapping back into focus.
