After everything they had been through—the Bloom Nests, the screaming pods, the resurrected rat—Thomas Estaris needed a break.
Not the kind that came with reports or briefings, not even a moment alone in his office. He needed something normal. Something that reminded him that the world hadn't entirely fallen apart.
So when Phillip pinged him over comms with a simple message—"You in?"—Thomas didn't even ask what it was about. He just showed up.
The MOA Complex's Arena Level had been converted months ago into more than just a fortified stronghold. A section of the Arena had been reclaimed, repurposed into a slice of what the old world used to be. It was one of the rare parts of the complex that didn't smell like bleach, oil, or scorched flesh.
Here, it smelled like popcorn. And grilled hotdogs.
