The heavy iron grate at the end of the western drainage channel gave way with a low, metallic groan, yielding to Gideon’s raw strength.
Cold, damp air rushed out to meet us, smelling of stagnant water, machine oil, and the faint, bitter tang of sulfur drifting down from the city above. We stepped into the narrow concrete catwalk of the Citadel's lower utility sub station, the sound of our tactical boots muffled by the steady drip of condensation overhead.
Behind us, Caelen and our twelve man elite strike team,a tactical blend of scarred Exiles and former Silverfang fighters drew their weapons, silently taking up defensive angles in the shadows.
"We’re three levels beneath the main lobby," Caelen whispered, pulling his hood tight around his scarred jawline as he pointed a gloved finger d
