The world on the other side of the maintenance hatch was a symphony from hell.
A constant, gut-vibrating rumble shook the concrete bunker, the sound of a thousand distant explosions.
The air smelled of ozone, burnt grass, and a coppery tang that Michael's brain refused to identify as blood.
He peered through the narrow viewing slit, his eyes struggling to adjust to the hellish, crimson light that bled from the Red Gate in the sky.
"Well," Jax's voice crackled in his ear, his usual cheerfulness strained. "This is officially the worst public park I have ever been to."
"The Yelp reviews are going to be terrible."
Michael's [Void Sense] was on fire.
It felt like a thousand tiny needles were pricking the inside of his skull.
The raw, undirected rage of the Gate was a physical weight, a psychic scream that threatened to drown him.
He could feel the chaotic, hungry energy of the gargoyle swarm, a buzzing, angry hive of red dots on his internal radar.
