Dark clouds loomed over the ruins of Redbrook. The once-thriving town lay in shambles, its streets littered with broken vehicles and shattered glass. Fires flickered in the distance, casting eerie shadows on the trembling townsfolk huddled together in fear.

At the heart of it all stood the Minotaur Omega, a towering 25-foot monster of muscle and horn, his dark, matted fur stained with the remnants of his last “meal.” His molten-red eyes scanned the terrified humans, savoring their helplessness. With a cruel grin, he stomped forward, his hooved feet cracking the pavement beneath him.

"You know the deal," he rumbled, his voice like rolling thunder. "Food. Supplies. Or I start playing with my toys."

The people flinched as he dragged an iron pole across the ground, sending a horrible screech through the air. He was enjoying this—breaking them, making them beg.

Above, hiding on the crumbling rooftops, Klon gritted his teeth, pressing a bloodied hand to his intercom.

"Command, this is Klon—where the hell are my reinforcements? The Jaegers are gone. I’m the last one left. If you don’t send backup now... these people are dead."

Silence.

Then, static.

"Klon... there is no backup."