The crushed earpiece cracked once more under Don's heel as he turned.
The air hadn't changed. Still thick. Still rancid. Still humming with whatever tension lingered from the deaths. But he ignored it, eyes shifting toward the stairwell.
Movement.
Down the steps came Gary—quiet, composed—as always, flanked by two of his usual support men. Their boots made more noise than they should've, mostly because they weren't trying to be quiet. They weren't here for stealth anymore.
Each of them had a rifle slung across their chest.
Not theirs.
Don recognized the models instantly—standard loadouts from the team he'd just dismantled.
Gary didn't notice him immediately. None of them did. Until the glow.
Those twin white eyes flicked up through the dark like coals being breathed to life.
Gary stopped mid-step.
His shoulders dropped—not in fear. Recognition. Relaxation.
