Clayton didn’t remember falling asleep. Just the hum of wind through broken glass, the distant groan of Stranded machinery, and his Lancer propped against the wall like a guard dog. He blinked awake in total darkness—wrong. His gut clenched before his brain caught up. He wasn’t in the safehouse. The air was damp. Cold. Something tight bit into his wrists. He tugged. Zip ties. A chair. Basement floor beneath his boots. Shit.

Last thing he remembered—someone had knocked. Or no… maybe a crash? Then pain. A flash of white. And silence.

Then the door opened.

A Locust drone stepped through, armored, hulking, blood crusted into its boots. Not one of the grubs he was used to. This one was different. Smart. It circled him, dragging something metal along the wall, eyes locked with his visor like it saw through him. Then it spoke. “Gear… tell me, where is the convoy?”

Clayton spat blood onto the floor. “Go to hell.”

The answer came fast—blunt force to his ribs. Again. And again. He heard one crack. Then two. Breath came shallow. He laughed through the pain. “Is that all you got?”

They didn’t stop. Hours? Minutes? He lost count. His armor didn’t help much when they went for his joints. A knife dragged along the edge of his collarbone. His helmet was ripped off, tossed across the room. A flood of heat spilled from a split just above his eye.

He tried to stay awake. Focus. Think of Anthony. Benjamin. All of them. But his vision swam.

Then… silence.

No more questions. No more strikes. Just the hum of electric lights and the sound of his own pulse in his ears. His head drooped forward. Blood pooled beneath the chair. His last thought was a whisper in his mind, "Sorry, guys... might be late to the next fight."

Then he blacked out.