The air in Zone Crimson didn't just feel dead; it felt wrong. It was a physical weight, a greasy chill that clung to the skin and soured the back of the throat. The skeletal remains of skyscrapers stood as silent sentinels over streets littered with the husks of abandoned cars and the occasional, shimmering residue of a disintegrated entity. The only sounds were the moan of the wind through broken windows and a new, unsettling one—a low, rhythmic, mechanical thrum that seemed to emanate from the very ground.
Marcus led the reconnaissance team himself. He moved with a predator's grace, his enhanced senses stretched to their limit, his assault rifle scanning the shadows. Beside him, two of his most seasoned werewolves, Ana and Ben, mirrored his movements. They were all on edge. This wasn't the chaotic, feral zone of a week ago.
"Contact. Three o'clock. Second floor of the bank," Ana whispered into her comms, her voice barely a breath.
