The ceiling split.
Cracks raced along the reinforced concrete, dust pouring down in sheets as the hallway quaked. Somewhere above them, something massive had collided with the structure—maybe a body, maybe an attack, maybe both. The aftershock rippled through the southern wing like a slow-breaking wave.
Chul stepped forward first, eyes sharp and scanning. His right fist clenched once, tension bleeding up his arm. The metal buckle of his gauntlet sparked faintly, the system threads within responding to his rising pulse.
Seul didn't say anything. Her senses had already expanded, threads of gravitational pressure mapping the space like invisible nerves. The shape of the hallway. The subtle displacements of air. The shifting weight of footsteps.
They were surrounded.
Prisoners had swarmed to the south side—maybe drawn by the sound, maybe herding toward the source of the blast. A dozen at first. Then more.
"Looks like we're on the clock," Chul muttered.
