The air grew cold and stagnant, smelling of ozone and old medicine. He reached a heavy, reinforced door and pushed it open.
The room was silent, save for the rhythmic hiss of a high-grade respirator. There, in a bed surrounded by flickering monitors and humming mana-conduits, lay an old man. His skin was the color of parchment, stretched thin over a skeletal frame. This was the true patriarch of the Brooks family, the man who held the secrets that had kept them relevant for decades—now reduced to a dying shadow.
"Father," Daniel whispered, his voice trembling as he reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a small vial of shimmering crimson liquid. "Ethan... the boy did it. He took the entire coast. The world is breaking apart out there, but he sent this. There's hope."
