[Ava's POV]
The unbearable tension within the Vault did not climax in a cataclysm of sound and fury. Instead, it underwent a profound, chilling metamorphosis, like a gas collapsing under its own weight into a dense, dark star. The psychic atmosphere, once vibrating with the frenetic potential of a plucked string, settled into a deep, resonant hum of impending doom.
The pack moved through the concrete arteries of their sanctuary not as warriors preparing for a fight, but as mourners in a tomb they themselves occupied. Conversations dwindled to terse necessities, then to silence. The air, perpetually tasting of rust and recycled oxygen, now carried the faint, metallic tang of dread, a psychic corrosion that ate at the edges of thought.
The countdown Ava felt in the marrow of her bones,
