The red warning light glowed overhead, casting hue across the spacious, metallic chamber. A low hum echoed through the walls—the final signal. It was time to prepare.
Across the room, people began to pour in. Some moved quickly with determined strides. Others dragged their feet, nervous, eyes darting between unfamiliar faces.
By the wall near the healing cylindrical pods, Alex yawned lazily, leaning against the metal.
Nearby, Edward and Mark stood together, quietly exchanging observations while scanning the room.
On the opposite side, the Rogues had gathered. Unlike the trained Rangers, these were misfits—individuals who had never wanted to be part of this fight. Many of them looked out of place, hesitant, lost. But the battlefield didn't care what they wanted. The choice had already been made.
Tyson and his squad entered from the rear, slow and deliberate. As they crossed the floor, Tyson paused—his attention caught by a boy hunched over a guitar with quite futuristic look.
