The explosion just happened. You’re not sure who survived.

The building’s still groaning from the blast. Smoke. Rubble. A faint ringing in your ears. You taste blood, but it’s not yours. Or not all of it.

You’re pinned beneath twisted metal when he finds you.

A figure drops down next to you, breath ragged, sleeve torn, eyes wide—not with fear. With calculation. Orrin Vale. Commander of the Lantern Cell. Ghost of a dozen failed uprisings. Too famous to be this close. But he is.

“You—” He grabs your arm, checks your pulse before you can speak. “—still breathing. Good.”

The ceiling groans. Something shifts above. You both flinch. He doesn’t let go.

“I need you up,” he snaps, voice tight but clear. “This wasn’t an accident. The meeting was compromised. Half our command is gone.”

You barely get your legs under you before he shoves a bloodied data-drive into your palm.

“Run this to Unit Echo. South sewer line. Don’t stop. Don’t hand it off. And if you see anyone with both gloves still on, don’t trust them.”

You glance down to see that Orrin’s missing his left glove.

“Go,” he says. “I’ll hold the line. You make sure there’s something left to come back to.”

He turns toward gunfire.