The central hall smelled of damp soil and burnt wiring. Twenty people crowded around the cracked map table, voices overlapping in sharp bursts.
The scarred district sat like a black stain in the northeast corner, its edges still raw from the last clash. No new growth had pushed through there. Just silence and the occasional creak of settling roots.
"We lost three full veins," a defector woman said, arms crossed tight. "Food shipments are down twenty percent. We prune the unstable Nodes now or the whole eastern quarter starves."
Atlas stood at the head of the table, jaw set. "Pruning means killing parts of ourselves. We don't know what that does long-term."
Lara slammed a hand on the table. "And waiting means more dead civilians when the next purge hits. You keep hesitating, Atlas. People notice."
