The eighth floor' oppressive silence shattered beneath a relentless, howling wind. Lilith stood on a sea of endless, undulating dunes, beneath a sky bleached white by a merciless, double sun. The air shimmered with heat haze, distorting the horizon into a liquid dream.
Her silver hair, usually a banner of cold elegance, became a whip in the scouring wind. She adjusted her perception instantly, her crimson eyes scanning the featureless waste. Noah's trail was here, but it was faint, frayed by the elemental fury of the place, blown across a hundred miles of sand. He had passed through quickly, a ghost in the storm.
But as she took her first step, the sand beneath her boot shifted not with the wind, but with a distinct, subterranean tremor. This floor was not just a desert; it was a living stomach, hungry and patient.
She had ventured perhaps a quarter-mile when the attack came. Not from in front, but from below and behind, a perfected ambush.
