The world was a symphony of crackling flames and groaning metal, the remnants of the warehouse groaning in its death throes. The ceiling was a jagged maw, open to the bruised purple of the night sky.

Dust motes danced in the hellish, flickering light, suspended in the haze. A heavy, shattered concrete slab lay across Y/n's legs, pinning them to the debris-strewn floor. The weight was immense, a raw and crushing pressure that sent bolts of white-hot pain up their spine unless they stayed utterly, perfectly still.

The comms unit in their ear was a dead, silent husk. The only sound was the distorted crackle of distant, panicked voices—the last vestiges of the fight, the retreat, the… absence.

The sharp scent of ozone and blood mixed with the smoke. The silence that followed their own ragged breath was the loudest thing of all. Then, a sound—a low, grinding groan from deep within the ruined structure, followed by the distant, frantic skitter of debris falling in the corner.