The low-ceilinged combat simulation grid in the west wing of the base smelled of ozone, scorched rubber, and stale grease. Heavy metallic obstacles, scarred by previous training rounds and coated in layers of grime, were arranged across the concrete floor to form a chaotic maze of artificial cover. Overhead, flickering utility lights pulsed unevenly, throwing long, erratic shadows against the iron-reinforced walls. Delon stood near the center of the grid, his boots sliding slightly on a patch of industrial oil as he raised the heavy makeshift frequency rifle. His chest plate felt tight, the modified shifter over his sternum still vibrating from the lingering static of his previous failure in the maintenance alcove.
Erica stepped out from behind a rusted steel pillar, her face half-hidde
