[Camp Alpha, Inner Stadium Concourse | Year 3 Post-Collapse, 0742 hours]
The concourse floor was immaculate white marble.
My combat boots were not.
Every step left behind a dark, wet print of freezing water and Benthic Weaver blood across the polished tiles, a trail stretching the entire length of the corridor behind us. The recycled air hit me the second we cleared the outer checkpoint. No toxic ash. No Sector Four rot. Just the sharp chemical bite of industrial floor wax, thick roasted coffee drifting out of the officer's mess somewhere to the left, and a thin metallic edge of ozone from the overhead LED strips.
It smelled like a different world. I supposed it was.
