Nobody moved. No one inhaled.
The whistle didn't just stop; it evaporated, as though the air itself had been scrubbed clean of the vibration. The crushing pressure that had pinned me to the spot—a physical weight against my chest—lifted, leaving me swaying, lightheaded, and gasping. My lungs burned. My vision swam.
I stood there, surrounded by the Iron Reapers, who were all frozen in various states of combat readiness. Marcus had his weapon drawn, his eyes scanning the empty, gray-lit clearing with the intensity of a predator. Noah held his radio in a white-knuckled grip, his thumb hovering over the dial, though we all knew the signal was dead.
The silence that followed was absolute. It was the kind of silence that existed before the world was created, or perhaps the kind that settles a
