Rama collapsed in a chair beside Budi's hospital bed. The monitors beeped steadily—critical but stable. Healers said he'd recover in a week, maybe two.
They didn't have two weeks. They had seventy-two hours.
"Stop watching me like I'm dying," Budi muttered weakly. "I'll be combat-ready in twenty-four hours."
"You'll be dead if you push it."
"Then I die fighting instead of lying here useless." Budi tried sitting up, grimaced, fell back. "The next attack will be worse than the Herald. You need every fighter."
"I need you alive more than dead heroically."
"Since when did you become cautious?"
"Since I became responsible for keeping everyone alive." Rama rubbed his exhausted face. Twelve Players critical. Three days until the next attack. A hundred thousand void entities waiting somewhere. "Rest. That's an order."
"Pulling rank now?"
"Whatever works."
