It was the day before the incursion into the tower, and the camp had spent every hour since the discovery squeezing whatever they could from the place.
The first floor was harmless. The second was a gift. Once that truth spread, people threw themselves at it with the hunger of survivors who had been starved of certainty for too long.
Day and night, awakened after awakened entered, killed, climbed, came back down, and went in again until the whole routine turned into something close to an industry built out of desperation.
That ruined Neo's plan.
He had wanted the nights for himself. Quiet hours, fewer eyes, easier movement, more chances to keep climbing without the rest of the camp sticking their noses into it. He had managed that for a while, but only for a while.
