"As the doors open, heavy footsteps echoing in the corridor reveal a guard patrol approaching the vault entrance!"
Meira's warning barked through Bisma's wireless earpiece just as he pressed his back flush against the cold concrete pillar outside the subterranean vault. Darkness engulfed the long hallway, broken only by the flickering green glow of an exit sign near the far stairwell.
Bisma remained motionless, his gloved fingers tightening around the grip of his suppressed pistol. He drew a quiet, measured breath through his nose, suppressing the sharp, throbbing ache radiating from the fresh stitches along his thigh.
"How many are on the grid, Meira?" Bisma whispered into his collar mic, his voice low and devoid of panic.
"Four thermal signatures descending the stairwell," Meira
