The dim, bioluminescent glow of Umabra’s faint light flickered ominously, casting long, unnerving shadows that seemed to stretch endlessly over the makeshift camp. It wasn’t much — a few tattered tents, makeshift barricades, and scattered gear — but it was all they had. The air felt thick, almost suffocating, with the uneasy stillness that gripped the camp. Clones moved in tense silence, their faces gaunt with fatigue and loss. Some were tending to the injured, their hands steady despite the blood and the grim task, while others focused on repairing damaged equipment, though it felt futile. No matter how many systems they fixed, how many weapons they cleaned, it all felt meaningless with the weight of what had just happened.

The shadows seemed to hide secrets of their own — the kind that crept into the minds of the men who had witnessed too much. Fives could feel the tension in every breath, the unspoken fear hanging in the air, and the uncertainty that clung to them all like a second skin. They had come into this campaign with a sense of purpose, but now… now they were broken. Krell’s betrayal had ripped through them like a jagged wound, tearing apart the fragile trust they had in their leadership. Their once confident, disciplined unit had been shattered. Half of the Clones they had brought with them to this hellish world were gone. Fallen in battle, victims of treachery, or scattered beyond recognition. The losses were too great, too personal, to be brushed off.

Fives felt the weight of it all bearing down on him. His body ached with exhaustion, every muscle screaming for rest, but there was no time for that. Not now. Not when his brothers needed him. Despite the growing heaviness in his limbs, despite the crushing fatigue that threatened to pull him under, Fives kept moving. His mind was a blur of thoughts, but one thing remained crystal clear — his brothers were counting on him. They all were. And he wasn’t about to let them down. Not now, not ever.