The descending, mechanical whine of the Alpha Silo's colossal master generators spinning down to zero sounded like the last breath of a dying titan.
Absolute, suffocating blackness swallowed the Platinum Concourse. The emergency lumens failed. The only illumination came from the sickly-green glow of the Faction's LitRPG overlays. The sudden death of the multi-ton climate control fans created a heavy, stagnant atmosphere. Without the dehumidifiers, freezing condensation pooled instantly on the imported marble, turning the hallway into a frictionless death trap.
The frantic, uncoordinated screams of the corporate elites echoed off the vaulted ceilings. But beneath their panic, a different sound vibrated up through the structural pillars.
Clank... clank... clank. A heavy, rhythmic drumbeat.
Don took point but instantly slipped on the wet stone, his boots finding zero purchase.
