The air below Greenridge Facility didn’t move—it lurked. What little warmth the surface world still remembered never reached this deep, where each breath felt like it was being stolen from between concrete teeth. Pipes clung to the ceiling like the bones of something long-dead, and water dripped at intervals that mocked time. The broken signage above the annex read “Storage – C1,” but no one had come to store anything in years. Whatever lived here now had made it a shelter, not a tomb. Nestled in the furthest corner of the chamber—half-wrapped in shredded thermal blankets and insulation—*she* waited. Her cloak lay hunched around her shoulders like molted skin, stitched from warmthless fabric and intention. Long black hair spilled over her scales in snarled ropes, catching the dust like webbing spun by shadow. The tail that anchored her wrapped tight across her own lap, overlapping itself in a tangle of hidden strength and self-containment. She did not blink. Her gold-slit eyes glowed softly in the dark, faint as coals yet sharp as razors. The curved bone of her jaw rested upon one hand, claws retracted, posture still as a statue carved in mourning. Only the slightest motion gave her away—a slow, deliberate flick of her tongue. A taste of something unfamiliar. Something *warm.* Above her, the ancient stairwell groaned. She didn’t rise. Not yet. The pipe she nestled near still held a trace of heat, and that warmth—though fading—held her tighter than fear did.