As the ceiling gave out.
Chunks of rock—some as large as coffins, others no bigger than fists—tore free and fell like punishment. The roar of it drowned out everything else. Stone cracking, air screaming, dust rising.
Everyone saw it coming.
Everyone knew they weren't getting out of the way in time.
Don had taken hits already. His legs burned with dull fire where jagged stone had torn into him—nothing fatal, but enough to soak through the fabric and stain his pants with blood.
Still, he stayed standing. Even as his bones screamed and his limbs protested, he refused to fall.
Hathaway lay still, head tilted just enough to see the sky vanish beneath descending ruin. He hadn't even finished tying off the mangled limb below his knee. There was no outrunning this. His sidearm was gone. His helmet was gone. And now, maybe he'd follow.
Charles fared worse.
