Eastgate didn’t just hum anymore—it roared. A city thrumming on the edge of collapse. Fires burned in blocks Capol used to patrol like a king. The nights were filled with sirens, not the lazy hum of street racers or corner boys spitting rhymes under broken lamps. This was different. This was war.
And the safehouse, once a sanctuary, now felt like a pressure cooker.
Julian was silent at his bank of screens, headset looped around his neck. Jerry sat stiff in the corner, ribs bound so tight he breathed shallow. Vince kept his eyes anywhere but on Pat. And Pat—Pat felt every stare. Every second of silence clawed at her skin.
Capol wasn’t saying much either. That was worse than yelling. His hands stayed busy—breaking down rifles, cleaning pieces, reassembling them with methodical precision.
