Solace stood in silence beneath a vaulted concrete chamber once used for metro control. Now it was alive with the hum of resistance.
Tattered maps were pinned to the curved walls, held up by bent nails and rusted blades. Communications cables ran like vines overhead, crisscrossing above crates of salvaged weapons and water-stained notebooks. A faint smell of oil and copper lingered in the air—alongside the scent of resolve.
Around him, lieutenants reviewed final plans. One squad was preparing to breach a former data tower turned surveillance hub. Another would disable a surface checkpoint near the old civic square. These weren't random strikes—they were symbolic. Chosen for what they represented: the illusion of control.
Solace marked another intersection on the city grid. His hands were steady. His eyes were colder than usual.
He had no time for speeches today.
“We hit all targets at zero three hundred. Stagger the strikes—never let them guess the pattern,” he said, not looking up. “If they react with drones, draw them south. If they deploy ground units, we collapse the tunnels behind them.”
Mara stepped beside him, wiping grime from her forehead. “Intel’s good. We’ve got eyes from scouts near Surface Gate 5. There’s weakness in their patrol pattern.”
Solace nodded once. No praise, no wasted breath.
“I’ll lead the Gate 5 team myself,” he said.
That surprised her. “You sure? You haven’t been topside in—”
“I need to see it,” he interrupted. “I need to remember what they did to it. What they turned it into.”
There was no arguing with that. Not with a man like him. He didn’t lead from behind. He never had.
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