The second tornado slammed into the house above with a violence that made the tunnels shudder like a struck drum.
Dust drifted from the ceiling, lantern flames bent sideways, and the roar was so loud it was less sound than pressure—like standing inside the chest of some enormous beast while it exhaled.
And yet… no one panicked.
The cartel men ducked their heads a little at the vibration, but their hands didn't shake.
Some set crates down with more care, others muttered about locks holding, but none of them showed fear. Instead, they moved into a rhythm that was startlingly ordinary.
A young man slid a metal grate over two bricks and set a small blue flame beneath it.
Another tossed a pot on top, poured water from a battered kettle, and began stirring in powdered broth like he was prepping for a family meal. Somewhere else, bottles clinked together—moonshine, not rations—passed around with grins and elbows in ribs.
