The cold didn't belong here.
Psycho knew that before he consciously named it. The air above the training grounds was warm with churned dust and humidity so dense that it added an extra layer to everything it touched. That wasn't even counting the human heat, sweat and breath mixing under the dull afternoon sun.
After all, this was Region L, part of the very southern Country M where even the devil didn't want to be… or so they said.
Here, the ground held heat, baked into the packed earth and concrete from hours of movement and bodies. The generators hummed beneath it all, their vibration a steady mechanical heartbeat.
And yet—
There were places where the air simply died.
Not cooled. Not shaded.
Dead.
He felt it the way glaciers feel pressure long before they fracture. A subtle wrongness, a thin absence that cut through warmth instead of displacing it.
