The wind hit like knives at this height.
Hernan stood beyond the rusted rooftop railing, visor dimmed, signal relays humming like low whispers behind him. The remains of District 10 stretched outward like the ribs of a dead god — towers snapped in half, data pylons stuttering, and streets that no longer bothered pretending to serve traffic. Down there, the city pulsed with a slow, failing rhythm — lights flickering in uncoordinated patterns, civilians drifting like ghosts between market ruins and power grid shadows.
Up here, silence reigned.
The killbox feed flickered across his HUD — five floors armed, walls mapped like a throat waiting to close. Escape paths rendered in red. Floor 12: two heat signatures. One kneeling. One standing.
Renz. Aya.
The drone cam fixed its lens like an eye that never blinked. Hernan didn't move. He just watched.
Aya's private channel pinged him with the kind of force that meant it had been sent with teeth. He accepted.
