The air in Sub-Level 3 tastes like copper and burnt ozone.
I stand in the center of the command bunker, my chest heaving, the heavy UN-issue assault rifle still gripped tightly in my right hand. My left arm hangs dead in its sling, the shoulder bruised purple from the recoil. At my feet, the dissolving gray sludge of the crimson-armored Praetorian brute is evaporating into the cold, blue-lit air.
Asher and Elara are huddled in the corner, their hands still clasped, their eyes wide and terrified. They haven't broken their dissonance field; the golden hum of their magic is the only thing keeping the Genesis Seed’s tether hidden from the orbital dreadnought above. But their small bodies are trembling violently from the physical proximity to the silence blasts.
They’re cutting through the r
