The dawn over the Emerald Throat wasn't silver anymore. It was the color of a bruised lung, purple and suffocating. Arkan stood at the edge of the limestone ledge, staring at the five figures collapsed in the mud before him. He didn't look like a survivor anymore. He looked like a statue carved out of cold, dark silicon. The sapphire glow of his tattoo was dim, a low-energy hum that mirrored the shallow breathing of the women at his feet.
"Get up," Arkan said. His voice didn't just carry in the air; it felt like it resonated inside their chest cavities. It was flat, mechanical, and devoid of the technician's warmth Maya once loved. "The Status check doesn't wait for your muscles to stop screaming. If you're horizontal when the sun breaks the canopy, you're officially a target."
"Go to he
