Maya’s hands trembled, her knuckles white against the harsh, flickering beam of the flashlight she held. The makeshift operating theater, a small alcove within the bunker's depths, offered little comfort. The air, recycled and stale, hummed with the low thrum of the dying generator, a constant, unnerving reminder of their precarious situation. Arkan knelt beside Riley, whose chest was a mangled mess of plasma burns, the stench of burnt flesh and cauterized tissue thick in the air. Zara held the flashlight steady, her own fear a palpable presence, but her gaze unwavering as she focused on Maya. Luna stood guard by the bunker’s main entrance, her senses on high alert, listening to the distant, muffled sounds of the PMC’s search outside.
“Hold it steady, Maya,” Arkan said, his voice a low, s
