The high-pitched wail of the air defense siren pierced through the heavy layers of concrete, echoing uselessly across the open expanse of the rooftop helipad. Commander Aiden did not lower his tactical weapon, his cold eyes remaining fixed on Delon as the crimson light from the edge indicators bathed the wet steel deck in a blood-red sheen. The freezing acid rain continued to pour, but the immediate threat was no longer the unstable prototype standing before him. The very atmosphere above Sector 7 seemed to tear open as a low, thunderous roar rolled in from the northern perimeter, completely drowning out the localized hum of the weapon capacitors.
"The automated defense grid has dropped its perimeter barriers," Delon muttered, his voice weak but carrying a sharp edge of grim validation
