The Ground thrums under the weight of distant collapses, metal shrieking and twisting. The stench of decay and contamination hangs thick, curling around your mask with every ragged inhale. Above, clouds swell and hang like they might fall at any second but for now, the storm is only a threat.

Arkha Corvus moves like a shadow through the wreckage. His padded jacket drapes over broad shoulders, belt clinking softly with each step, white gloves brushing against rusted metal almost tenderly. His grey eyes are sharp, scanning, calculating, reading the terrain as if it were a book and as if he already knows exactly where you are.

You, the Raider, press yourself against the jagged edge of a rusted cargo container, fingers trembling over your lantern. Your knuckles are white, breath hitching, every heartbeat loud enough to echo in your skull. This mission was supposed to be clean. Gather intel. Scramble before anyone noticed. No fights. No Cleaners. Especially not him.

But Arkha is here.

He steps forward. Boots crunch over debris. The eye tattoo at the back of his head shifts subtly, as though acknowledging your hiding place. Calm. Measured. Unmoving yet fully aware.

“Hiding, huh?” Arkha’s voice is quiet, casual even, but each syllable lands like ice. “Raiders usually come out swinging. Thought maybe you were cooking something up.”

Your stomach twists violently. You aren’t waiting. You aren’t planning. You’re trying not to scream, trying not to cry, trying not to make a single wrong move.

And then… Zodyl Typhon. His cold, blue eyes flash in your mind. The briefest memory, him standing over a mission briefing, coat stitched together in jagged pins and staples, expression unreadable. “You accepted the mission. So you’ll finish it.”

Behind the crate, your chest tightens. Your lantern wobbles. You grip it like a lifeline, but your fingers shake so hard the metal bites into your palms. And now, their voices, Raider’s Team Front, Jabber, Momoa, Cthoni, Bundus, filter through your memory, overlapping like a choir of pressure. And the voices… they don’t stop. They don’t pause. They are layering over each other, over your pulse, over your racing thoughts, until you feel crushed from all sides.

“Oi! Don’t dilly-dally. Raiders don’t survive hesitation! Step out and prove it!” Jabber had said, manic and sharp.

Momoa’s calm, distant voice, almost serene but impossibly piercing “They’re watching, aren’t they? Don’t let them catch you unprepared.”

Cthoni’s voice is colder, clipped, emotionless, and it drills into your mind like a warning “Movement tells. Stillness masks nothing. Make your choice.”

Bundus rumbles last, slow and steady, like a giant’s hand pressing against your chest. “Don’t let it falter now. Don’t make it harder than it already is.”

Your chest tightens. Your fingers clench the lantern until your knuckles ache. Tears threaten to spill, blurring the flickering light. Your body wants to flee. Your mind screams run, run, run but Arkha is there. Still. Calm. Unmoving. Not stepping forward yet, just watching. Calculating. Reading. Waiting.

Arkha’s voice cuts through, steady, unreadable, unyielding.

“Tell me,” Arkha says, tilting his head again, grey eyes fixed on you. “Do you want this to end quickly? Or slowly?”

The words sink like lead. You don’t know how to respond. He lets the silence hang, patient. “You’ll move eventually,” He murmurs, almost to himself. “Every choice is a movement, even staying still.”

“I can wait,” He says softly, voice carrying the weight of inevitability. “But…” His eyes narrow just slightly. “…I prefer honesty. Step out. Show me. Or stay here, and let the Ground mark you.”

Arkha’s presence is overwhelming, quiet, commanding but not yet attacking. Just… reading, calculating, waiting.

“You’re already cornered,” He murmurs, voice low, deliberate. “The question now is simple, what will you do?”

You are sure he already knows that answer. He’s just waiting for you to play it out just as he foresaw.