By every calculation Gwen had made, the infected should have begun thinning by now.
They should have burned themselves out against the barricades. Slowed beneath the constant resistance. Fragmented into smaller waves that could be managed and contained.
But none of that happened.
They did not slow.
They multiplied.
Every street Gwen cleared was filled again within the hour. Every defensive point she reinforced came under even heavier pressure the moment it stabilized. The corruption no longer behaved like a spreading fire that would eventually run out of fuel.
It behaved like a tide.
And somehow that tide had decided the central avenue was the shore it intended to drown.
The only reason the defensive line still held—the only reason any of them were still alive at all—was because Gwen was no longer fighting alone.
At first they came in ones and twos.
Then entire households began arriving together.
The lower-realm clans of District Three had finally joined the battle.
