Dominic Mylod stood in the middle of the now-silent hospital corridor, rubbing the bridge of his nose with a weary sigh. He hadn't expected Alexis Mackay to stage such a theatrical production. While he appreciated the efficiency, the sheer scale of the mobilization felt like something out of a high-budget action flick rather than a discreet intervention.
Nearby, the air was thick with the scent of ozone and cold sweat. Daytoni Raye, Doctor Hanson, and the ragged remains of the Sand Company crew remained frozen. They were no longer the aggressors; they were prey, trembling like leaves in a gale, their faces drained of color as they knelt upon the hard linoleum. The power dynamic had shifted so violently that several of the laborers were visibly shaking, their heavy tools lying forgotten on
