The wind still whispered through the broken skyline of Harmonfield. The dome above shimmered faintly, like a sleeping giant exhaling. Joe leaned on his cane, the weight of the ritual etched into his every bone. Jack wiped the sweat from his brow, staring at the quiet horizon. Vincent stood still, back turned to them, his breath ragged but steady.
Then Joe’s head snapped to the left. “He’s on the move.”
Vincent turned, brows furrowed. “You feel that too?”
“Like a thread snapping,” Joe muttered. “George knows. He’s pulling back.”
Sarah stepped forward. “Where would he go?”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Sanctuary.”
Vincent scoffed. “That old myth?”
“No,” Joe said firmly. “Not a myth. A bunker hidden beneath the original Harmonfield Foundation, before it was a city. Before any of us were born.
