Ten thousand survivors bled into the pristine executive suites. They did not wait for an invitation, and they did not ask for permission. A mob of desperate twenty-year-olds, raised entirely in the dark, collided with the three-billion-credit architecture of their former masters. The screech of scavenged welding torches cut straight through bulletproof poly-glass, showering the synthetic marble in jagged neon sparks. Tyson dragged his grafted Goliath-Plate armor across the floorboards. The heavy metal clanked with an ugly, asymmetrical rhythm that echoed down the ruined hallways.
A freezing draft blew up the empty elevator shafts, crashing against the localized heat of jury-rigged thermal vents. The neon-grunge aesthetic of the PATH aggressively swallowed the corporate heights. Mechanics in faded red jerseys tore down white silk tapestries. They strung stained hammocks directly across the Tactical Suite, tying off knots on shattered marble columns.
