A few minutes into the ride, Don hadn't moved much.
The helicopter's hum was steady. Constant. Nothing dramatic—just enough to make thinking harder if you weren't used to background noise.
He sat in the back, alone. The two pilots up front hadn't said a word since liftoff, and Don hadn't seen a reason to break the streak.
He rested one elbow on the seat's arm, leaning toward the window as he looked down over the city.
Below, the scars were visible. Pockets of collapsed buildings, sections cordoned off with tape and emergency lighting.
But most of the view was dominated by movement. Aid stations. Relief crews. Long lines of people waiting—bags slung over shoulders, children clinging to sleeves.
Further out, a protest was forming. Less than a hundred people, holding up signs that said things like "Where's the Truth?" and "Justice for the Infected."
Don didn't linger on them.
**Buzz**
His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out.
It was a message from Hector:
———
