Towards Safety. Towards Hope.

Three days after the extraction, the helicopter hums above Mythrock, and Benjamin finally sees the city shrink behind him. The ruined streets, the burned blocks, the old fears, they all fall away beneath the rotor wash.

He sits crammed between Jenny, Louis, and Elias among strapped-down supply crates, all four of them dirt-streaked, bruised, and too tired to speak at first. The promise of that earlier SOS, the scramble to the rail line, the race through the perimeter, it all ends here, in the sky.

Below them, Old Orleans becomes a patchwork of smoke, rooftops, and distance. The supply crate at the zone edge is open behind them, proof that they are no longer arriving empty-handed.

The helicopter banks toward the designated safe zone, and for the first time since the outbreak, the ride feels like escape instead of retreat.

Benjamin lets his weight sink into the seat and closes his eyes. The helicopter’s vibration rolls through him, steady and impersonal, and for a few breaths he does nothing at all.

Jenny shifts closer, her shoulder brushing his, careful not to jostle him. Her hand settles over his forearm for a second, warm through the dirt and fatigue.

Louis gives a tired, crooked smile from across the cabin, then looks back out over the shrinking city. Below, Old Orleans is only smoke and broken light.

Elias leans his head back against the crate, eyes closed, the tension finally draining out of his face. The supply crates rattle softly with the helicopter’s hum.

Benjamin stays still with his eyes shut, listening to the engine, Jenny’s breathing, and the faint, fading noise of the city beneath them.