As the drop hit, the monitors flashed red. The perimeter had been breached. Operators scrambled—Exusiai checking her clips, Texas sparking a cigarette, SilverAsh narrowing his eyes at the horizon. The song’s driving energy mirrored the frantic coordination of the battlefield. It was a dance of tactical desperation.

Doctor sat in the command center, the rhythmic pulse of bleeding through their headset. The track wasn’t just music; it was the heartbeat of a dying world. Every synth swell felt like the surging Originium in an Infected’s veins—volatile, beautiful, and ticking toward zero.

The fluorescent lights of the Rhodes Island corridors hummed with a low, electric anxiety. Outside the reinforced glass, the wasteland of Terra was a bruised purple, choked by an approaching Catastrophe.

Doctor took off the headset. The silence of the room was heavier than the music, but the rhythm remained, etched into their pulse. They weren't just a memory yet.

Amiya stood by the viewport, her shadow long and sharp. "They’re coming, aren't they?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper over the beat.

As the final notes faded into a haunting silence, the dust settled. The Rhodes Island landship groaned but held its ground. They were battered, infected, and hunted—but they were still there.