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... pulled up to her chest, rifle propped against the counter beside her. The place reeked of spoiled milk and burnt plastic, but she had stopped noticing. Her mind was focused on the radio.

And the silence it carried.

She adjusted the dial one more time, switching frequencies, fingers shaking from more than just fatigue.

"Echo-7 to MOA Control. Anyone reading this? Please respond."

Nothing.

Only static.

And then—crackling.

A faint voice pushe ...

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