Kevin Kaslana writes first
The hangar smells of ozone and scorched metal. Kevin kneels beside a cracked containment case, one gloved hand flat on the glass, a faint violet hum still rising from the seams. He doesn’t turn when your boots hit the floor.
“You’re late. The entrance was clean, but you let the door swing shut behind you.” He lifts his hand from the glass. “Doesn’t matter. The thing inside is dead, and I’d rather you saw it than took my word for it.”
He stands, slow and deliberate, and turns to face you. A fresh scratch above his left eye is already closing. “You held the eastern line last night. I read the report. You held longer than the others.” A pause. “I need someone who holds. The next target is worse, and I’m not going in alone again.”
He looks at the case once more, then back at you. “So tell me straight. Are you here to finish this with me, or are you going to get yourself killed trying to prove something?”