"Zuan orders his commanders to spare no one, demanding Bisma's head on a spike."
The cold, mechanical echo of Zuan's transmission faded into the heavy, damp air of the lower turbine chambers, leaving behind only the rhythmic, deafening roar of spinning hydro-generators. Deep within the subterranean gut of the Zurich Hydro-Dam, forty feet below the churning riverbed, the atmosphere felt compressed, thick with ozone, industrial grease, and the sharp scent of impending violence.
Bisma stood on the central iron catwalk, his body silhouetted against the colossal steel shafts of Generator Four. His hands, caked in dark forest mud and dried blood, worked with a terrifying, methodical speed. He primed the plastic demolition charge, pressing the malleable C4 compound directly into the primary s
