Morning broke over Al-Zataari, not with a crescendo of dawn, but in a slow, golden creeping light which seeped through the dust-haze to tinge the canvas tents rose and pale-gold. Dawud woke not for the first time in months to his brother's coughing.
He'd lain through the night half-reclined in a chair beside Tariq's cot, waking and sleeping in a dream-dazed blur, his visions a jumbled mix of red code and his mother's laughing, vanishing face. The System's warning—Evolutionary Divergence—had sat cold and heavy in his stomach all night.
And now the light. And the quiet.
He blinked, his body stinging from the brutal Vital Reserve drain. His muscles were as water, his head in a haze. Vital Reserve Depletion: 47%. Regeneration: 72 hours remain. The numbers were a grim reminder of the price.
