The narrow, claustrophobic corridors of The Inner Vents, which had once been a tomb of silent stone and hissing steam, were suddenly transformed into a cacophonous symphony of death. The staccato roar of Dayat's HK416 barked incessantly, the muzzle flashes illuminating the thick, oily black miasma that was rapidly coagulating in the air. Through the neon-green, high-definition overlay of his GPNVG-18 goggles, the world was a nightmare of movement—dozens of skeletal, ink-black silhouettes of Dretches scuttled across the walls, the floor, and the tangled overhead steam pipes, all converging on a single point: the intruders.
"Kancil! Catch this!" Dayat roared over the deafening percussion of his rifle.
