The main camp hadn't moved much in the time since Don and Charles had descended—same folding tables, same clunky consoles, same nervous hum of filtered generators parked too close to the tree line. But the people? They looked different now. Tired. Less confident. More real.
Don stepped out first, blood still caked along the edge of his gaiter. His boots hit the dirt with a muted thmp, his pace steady but strained.
Charles followed close behind, silent, his posture unnaturally straight—likely compensating for the stiffness in his ribs. And on his right hand, still impaled on those twin retractable blades, was Father John's head. It didn't twitch anymore. That was someone else's problem now.
Behind them, Agent Hathaway limped forward, one arm slung over the shoulders of another field agent who looked barely old enough to shave. Two more agents flanked his sides, keeping a close eye on his bloodied, makeshift tourniquet.
