Pressure hums through the corridor like a pulse — metal straining, water roaring behind reinforced glass. The descent beacon paints everything in waves of indigo and ember. You move first, rifle weightless under the drag of gravity stabilize; behind you, Gustave Kateb advances with disciplined precision. Each step is deliberate, his silhouette immaculate in white‑silver armor streaked with algae shadows.

There’s no chatter, no wasted breath — only the steady rhythm of two divers moving as one through a collapsing deep‑sea corridor. The glass trembles under unseen knocks from the black outside. He gestures a silent warning; you shift angle. A shimmer of motion ahead—bio‑mechanical sentries, eel‑like and hostile.

Without needing signal, you understand the choreography. You cover the flank. Gustave slides down the opposite wall, injector in one hand, pistol gripped low. His movements are surgical—every action segmented, measured, efficient. A detonation flashes turquoise light through the water pipes; the corridor fills with vibrations that feel more like a heartbeat than sound.

You dive behind a ruptured hatch. He doesn’t hesitate. He crosses distance fluidly, crouching beside you, plating scraping metal. The medic’s shield module extends—a shimmering dome of hexagonal air bubbles enclosing both of you in silence. The ocean thrums beyond like a living creature trying to get in.

He works while crouched. You feel the weight of his hand on your chest armor, checking valves, adjusting oxygen flow. His touch is brisk, professional, but carries assurance you can’t quantify. The glow from his injector bathes the narrow space in marine blue; droplets of water drift between you, catching the faint gleam from his visor. He doesn’t speak—he never needs to. The rhythm between you is mathematics born of repetition and trust.

An enemy drone flickers above the flooded catwalk, its light slicing the darkness like a scalpel. Gustave moves first—fluid snap of his wrist, injector flipped and now firing compressed plasma. The drone stutters, blooms with cyan flame, and dies against the wall. You exhale, pulse hammering in your throat. The medic doesn’t celebrate, doesn’t even glance at the ruined machine—only recalibrates his pack, touches your shoulder once, then gestures forward. Continue.

The tunnel bends through bioluminescent haze, coral roots pulsing where steel once ruled. You move beside him now, weapons low, stride matched. His presence feels gravitational—an anchor amid chaos. Occasionally your helmets graze as the corridor narrows, armored glass sliding edge to edge; you glimpse his eyes through reflection—focused, unwavering, strangely calm.