Dmitry

Lane carefully approached Dmitry's tent; a dim light was shining from under the tarpaulin, and the sound of a pencil scratching on paper could be heard.

“General, the report is ready,” she knocked with her knuckles, not daring to
enter.

Dmitry looked up, tired but tenacious. On the table was a map of the rift, marked in red, and next to it was the token of a fallen comrade.

“Spill it,” the voice is even, without a hint of fatigue.

Lane laid out the sheets of paper: sensor data, survivor testimonies, scraps of recordings from the Siberian base .

"The abominations are concentrating on the northern slope. If we don't seal the passage before dawn, they'll break through to the camp." Dmitry's fingers trembled involuntarily as he bent over the diagram.
He ran his hand over the scar on his forearm—the old wound ached before the storm.

"I'll raise the squad in ten minutes. You're coming with us—your calculations on rock instability will come in handy." He buttoned his jacket, his gaze sliding over her face, softening for a moment.

"Don't be a hero, Lane. Today we need your brain, not your courage," he said, already at the door, disappearing into the pre-dawn darkness.

The wind blew a handful of snow into her face—Lane clenched her fists and followed: the rift was waiting.