The voice came through clear.

Charles’s wing lowered slightly, tension easing just enough.

The woman in his arms didn’t notice.

She was still breaking apart.

"Let me go! Let me go to my baby!!"

Her voice cracked, rising into something raw as she struggled again, weaker now but no less desperate.

The officer stepped fully into view.

Mid-thirties.

Close-cropped hair, sweat lining his brow, jaw tight under the strain of everything happening around them.

His uniform was intact but marked—dust, small tears, signs of recent contact. His grip on the rifle remained steady.

He gave Charles a quick nod.

"Sir. The chopper is ready. No attacks have targeted the roof yet, but—"

He stopped.

Mid-sentence.

His posture stiffened.

So did Charles.

Both of them heard something through the comms at the same time.

Don hadn’t yet.

Because he was still listening outward—

For the infected.

Then—

Winter communicated.

"Don. The female infected is making its way up to the roof."

Don’s head snapped toward Charles.

But Charles had already heard a similar report on his head.

The officer reacted first.

Fast.

He stepped aside immediately, clearing the doorway.

"Sir, you need to get to the chopper now!"

No hesitation.

No waiting.

Charles moved.

He pushed the door open—

KRRK—~

And stepped through, carrying the woman with him as she continued to cry, her voice breaking into uneven fragments.

"No—! I want my baby—!"

Don followed right behind.

——-

The roof opened wide.

Expansive.

Clean.

Structured.

Two helipads stretched across the surface, marked clearly against the polished stone. The design matched the tower—refined, expensive—but it had been overtaken by something else.

Preparation.

Two silver helicopters sat ready, their frames sleek but reinforced, rotors idle for now but primed.

Around them, the space had been converted into a forward operation point—portable lighting rigs set up along the perimeter.

Equipment lined the edges.

Ammo stations.

Supply crates.

A portable med-station stood near one side, a large kit already open with tools laid out beside it. A compact droid hovered near it, systems active, awaiting input.

Security officers were positioned throughout.

Some kneeling with sniper rifles aimed outward over the edges.

Others standing in formation with high-caliber weapons, sights trained on specific approach points.

No one idle.

Everyone ready.

Charles didn’t look.

Didn’t slow.

He moved straight toward the nearest chopper, steps steady despite everything still weighing on him.

The woman continued to cry in his hold, her voice fading in and out between breathless sobs.

Don—

Paused.

Just slightly.

His gaze swept the area quickly, augmented overlays feeding him information—positions, distances, movement markers—while his hearing stretched outward again, filtering through rotor hums, shifting boots, distant chaos.

Then—

Winter again.

"The female infected is approaching from the eastern face of the tower. It is best you leave now."

Don’s head turned.

Locked onto that direction.

A formation of soldiers already stood there, rifles raised, sights trained toward the edge.

Don didn’t argue.

Didn’t linger.

His gaze pulled away from the edge, from the formation of soldiers bracing for contact, and returned forward.

The path was clear—chopper, exit, survive.

He moved.

Calm steps across the rooftop, boots striking against the polished surface now layered with dust and scattered equipment.

The air carried a faint burn, something acrid mixing with the distant scent of decay rising from the streets below.

The rotors of the helicopters had begun a slow idle—

WHRRR—~

The wind they pushed rolled across the roof in steady waves, tugging at loose fabric, rattling small debris along the ground.

Ahead—

Charles approached the chopper.

The guards stationed beside it shifted slightly, lowering their stance just enough to make room, rifles still angled outward toward the perimeter.

Their posture never fully relaxed, eyes scanning past Charles rather than at him.

Then—

Comms.

"This is Watcher! Infected has broken into the floor right below the roof—Monclaire Suite!"

The words hit fast.

Charles slowed.

So did several of the officers nearby.

Their heads turned almost in sync—

Down.

Don did the same.

First directly below.

Then toward the edge.

"Winter," Don said, voice low but immediate. "What do you see?"

No response.

His brow tightened.

"Winter?"

Nothing.

The line had gone dead.

For a fraction of a second—

Don stopped.

Charles noticed.

He turned his head slightly, eyes catching Don’s pause, something unspoken passing between them in that brief glance.

Then—

"Contact!"

The shout cut across the rooftop.

Every weapon snapped toward the same direction.

The eastern edge.

Not far from the helipad.

There—

Standing at the very lip—

A child.

Small.

Still.

The boy.

Blood marked his head, dried in streaks down his face and neck.

His posture was wrong—too straight, too fixed, his arms hanging at his sides without motion.

No breath.

No life.

Just... standing.

A few officers froze.

Just for a second.

Long enough to register what they were seeing.

Too long.

What none of them saw—

Not immediately—

Was the strand.

Thin.

Dark.

It pierced through his back, trailing downward over the edge of the building, disappearing from sight.

Below—

Movement.

More strands.

Climbing.

Slow.

Quiet.

The mother saw the child.

Her head snapped toward the edge, eyes locking onto the figure with a clarity that cut through everything else. For a moment, she didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Then—

"My baby...?"

The words came out broken.

Then louder.

"My baby!"

She tore free.

Her body dropped from Charles’s hold as she twisted violently, hitting the ground before scrambling up without balance, without control.

Her feet slipped once, then caught, and she ran—straight toward the edge.

Charles reacted instantly.

His arm shot forward—

"Wait—!"

But she was already moving.

Desperation drove her faster than reason.

She didn’t see anything else.

Didn’t hear anything else.

Just him.

Charles moved to follow, wing flaring slightly as he pushed forward—

But it wasn’t just him.

The boy—

Moved.

Not forward.

Not toward her.

His body—

Shifted.

A twitch.

Then—

It broke.

His skin split in thin lines across his limbs, across his face, across his torso. Not like a wound—like something inside was forcing its way out.

The structure of his body warped, collapsing inward as black strands forced through the breaks—

SKRRR—~

Flesh gave way.

Bone didn’t hold.

It didn’t snap either—

It unraveled.

His form twisted, limbs pulling apart as they thinned and stretched, turning into strands that whipped outward in uneven bursts.

His head tilted at an unnatural angle before it too broke apart, splitting into a mass of writhing black fibers that spread and expanded outward—

Seamless.

Wrong... and too fast.

Don saw it.

So did the snipers.

One of them reacted instantly.

"Movement—!"

CRACK—!

The shot rang out before the word fully left his mouth.

The round tore through part of the shifting mass, ripping strands apart mid-formation. Black fragments scattered outward, some falling, others recoiling back toward the main body.

But it didn’t stop.

It didn’t slow.

The strands continued to spread, pulling more of the structure apart as the thin line trailing from its back thickened—feeding it, connecting it.

The rooftop shifted.

Not physically—

But in feeling.

Officers adjusted their stance, grips tightening on their weapons.

Some took half-steps back, others leaned forward, aiming more precisely as the situation twisted into something worse than expected.

Sweat lined a few brows.

Not from heat.

From what they were watching.

Charles’s wing trembled slightly at his side, the earlier damage still there, still limiting him as he repositioned himself between the woman and the thing that had once been her child.

The rotor wash grew stronger—

WHRRR—~

Carrying with it the smell of the city—burnt material, decay, something foul layered beneath it all.

Far below—

The sound of movement.

A mass.

Running.

Growing louder.

The horde.

But no one looked down.

No one cared about that right now.

Because all eyes—

Were on the edge.

On the thing forming there.

And the woman—

Still trying to reach it.

Still calling out—

"My baby! Please—!"

Her voice broke completely as she stumbled forward again, reaching out toward something that no longer existed.