The heavy iron brazier shattered directly against the guard's helmet. Burning coals spilled across the pristine synthetic marble, searing the wet fabric of the combatants. A starving mechanic in oil-stained rags tackled the armored man to the floor. The raw crunch of bone hitting stone echoed over the screaming crowd.
Will stepped into absolute chaos.
Three hundred lower-level survivors tore the executive dining hall apart. They fought Tyson's heavy-plate guards over wooden crates of preserved, high-tier calories. Starving people ripped sealed ration bags open with their teeth. Men and women shoved handfuls of dried fruit and salted fish into their mouths while actively taking hits from steel batons. A mechanic with a bleeding scalp swallowed a foil packet of nutrient paste whole, choking it down before a guard could rip it from his hands. Boots slipped on spilled soup and fresh blood. The room smelled of unwashed bodies, burning hair, stale cordite, and sheer panic.
