The physical therapy room smells of sawdust, rubbing alcohol, and the faint, bitter tang of strong coffee. It is a temporary structure, a prefab UN military tent erected in the shadow of the half-rebuilt Administration Wing. Through the open flap, I can hear the rhythmic, mechanical thud of pile drivers and the distant, shouting voices of human engineers working alongside Blackthorn wolves to clear the southern crater.
It is the sound of rebuilding. It is the sound of peace.
But inside the tent, the atmosphere is thick with frustration.
Kade sits on the edge of the reinforced medical cot, his massive, heavily muscled torso stripped bare. His chest is a map of healing scars, the deep, purple bruises from the singularity drive’s gravity well fading into a sickly yellow-green. But it is hi
