The Cold Concrete Horizon Where Lost Operatives Trade Whispered Sins for a Sovereign Chance at Absolute Survival
CHAPTER 1: THE FIRST STRIKE The heat in the yard smelled of fried transmission fluid and dead grass. It came off the asphalt in waves, thick enough to blur the silhouettes of the men clustered around the rusted steel of the basketball stanchions. They didn’t move. They just watched the heels of my civilian boots…