The city at dawn was gray and empty. Mist clung to the streets, softening the jagged ruins. Three scout teams left the resort hotel in silence, bicycles whispering over wet asphalt. No engines, no noise—only the faint clatter of chains and the sound of their breathing.
The boss's orders echoed in their heads: Quiet. No heroics. Eyes open. Report and return. Each man repeated it like a prayer. Out here, one wrong sound could draw a horde.
Team One – River and Police Heliport
Kenta led his pair south along the river. The water stank of oil and rot, drifting with half-sunk cars. They passed corpses snagged on pylons, heads bobbing like buoys. None moved, but the men never took their hands off the rifles strapped to their backs.
The police heliport came into view—a concrete pad jutting over the water, surrounded by chain-link fencing. One gate was broken, bent outward as if something heavy had pushed through.
"Clear?" whispered his partner.
