Three warehouses. One central bunker. A perimeter of chain-link fencing, topped with razor wire that caught the dying light like teeth. Patrols moved in pairs, predictable. Almost too predictable.

Y/n’s scope drifted from the central bunker’s steel door to the rooftops, then back down to the guard patrols. They walked their routes with their rifles slung low, cigarettes dangling, laughter carrying faint on the wind. No urgency. No tension. As if they didn’t know what was already inside their walls.

Or as if they were waiting for something.