The footage sputtered out in a burst of static.
No one spoke.
Only the soft hum of the command centre filled the silence, broken by the occasional crackle from an overhead light struggling to stay on. Cold, digital light bathed their faces in pallid shades of blue and white, casting long shadows against the reinforced walls.
Derek didn't blink. He tapped the console again. The image jumped back a few seconds, just before the feed had been lost. With two fingers, he expanded the frame—once, twice, three times—until the pixels broke down into smears of colour and noise. But there it was.
Blurred. Grainy. Almost missed it in the chaos.
A shape.
No—a claw.
Long. Black. Curved like a scythe, obsidian-smooth and gleaming as if polished by something unholy. It had struck faster than the drone's sensors could react. It hadn't just hit the drone—it had anticipated it. Executed.
Derek leaned in, jaw tightening. "That," he said, pointing with a sharp motion, "is not a B-rank beast."
