The helicopter touched down without fanfare.
No searchlights. No armed convoy waiting with rifles raised. Just the whine of the engine fading as the aircraft settled into place—an automated landing pad embedded directly into a mountainside, its borders lit by faint, buried LEDs that pulsed with cold, clinical rhythm. The blades slowed to a whisper, then silence.
We weren't in the jungle anymore.
The ramp dropped. Wind sliced inward, sharp and dry, stinging the cuts on my cheek. I looked out and felt my stomach twist. Everything was wrong.
The air had shifted. Thinner. Colder. The stars above looked clearer—emptier. Snow dusted the edges of the cliffs, bleeding like ash across black stone. This wasn't just a relocation. It was exile.
