POV: Kil Salvatierra
The moment the truck rolled past the twin concrete barriers and into the wide entryway of Camp Aguinaldo, a wave of voices rose from the clusters of soldiers crowding the checkpoints. Some shouted instructions while others argued over supply manifests or tried to pacify the handful of civilians who were begging for updates about missing family members. The noise blended with the hum of generator-powered floodlights that carved harsh white beams across the asphalt. I watched the chaotic sprawl of military tents, makeshift triage stations, and armored vehicles forming a labyrinth of metal and canvas across the parade ground. The sight tightened something in my chest, because the camp didn't feel like a sanctuary; it felt like a lung desperately trying to fill itself with air even though the world had punctured it from every direction.
"You see that?" Mark said, his voice weak but laced with awe as he pushed the flap aside and peered out at the rows of tents. "They turned the whole base into a refugee city. I thought we'd see at least a bit of order, but this—this looks like Divisoria on Christmas Eve."
The truck jerked to a stop, forcing everyone to brace themselves. I looked past Mark toward the clusters of tents that stood closest to the walls. Soldiers were setting up new barricades, reinforcing positions, adjusting mounted machine guns, and dragging crates labeled with symbols I didn't recognize. The faint smell of alcohol, burnt gunpowder, and human exhaustion clung to the air like a film.
"We're early," I murmured, watching a group of soldiers rush a stretcher toward a tent marked with a red tarp. "They weren't expecting this many people."
"You think they're overwhelmed already?" Mark asked, pushing his glasses up his nose in a shaky gesture. "That's not a good sign if the military can't handle the evacuees."
"It's not about numbers." My eyes traced the metal towers rising from the far side of the camp. They weren't radio towers. They were something else—cylinders lined with mana suppressors. "It's about what else they're preparing for."
Sofia climbed into the truck again, pulling herself inside using a loose strap. She crouched beside Mark with a focused calm that contrasted sharply with the simmering panic around us. She checked his IV line again before glancing at me. Her bun had fallen apart almost completely, leaving strands of hair framing her cheeks, but she didn't bother fixing it.
"You two move first," she said, pointing toward a group of soldiers waiting outside. "Medical tent needs his paperwork, and you—" she jabbed a finger toward my chest, "—need evaluation before you collapse."
"I'm not collapsing," I said, though my voice lacked conviction. "I can walk."
"You can walk because your adrenaline is still carrying half your weight," she replied sharply. "Once that drops, you'll feel everything you've been ignoring. Trust me. Don't be stupid."
"It's not stupidity," I muttered, though I didn't argue. "It's urgency. We don't know what's coming next."
"What's coming next," Sofia said, her voice rising with a restrained frustration, "is triage. And rules. And keeping civilians alive. You want to help? Follow orders for now."
"I'm not good with orders," I said.
Her eyes narrowed, but before she could retort, a soldier shouted from outside the truck.
"Alcantara! Move your patients! We're redirecting new arrivals to the east tents!"
"Of course they are," Sofia sighed, rubbing her forehead. "Alright, come on. Both of you. Slowly."
Mark tried to stand but winced, clutching his ribs. "Doc, if I fall over, pretend you didn't see."
"I'll pretend you bounced," she replied dryly. "Move."
I grabbed the signpost and slung it across my back before stepping down onto the cracked asphalt. The floodlights stabbed at my eyes, but the Spider's perception filtered the glare into manageable fragments. Civilians shuffled past us; some were crying, others silent, and a few stared blankly as if their minds refused to catch up with reality. Soldiers shouted, children whimpered, and the air was thick with dread—dread so strong it tasted metallic.
"This way," Sofia said, pointing toward a tent with a large orange X painted across the canvas. "Triage first."
But before we took two steps, a firm voice called out behind us.
"You there! Name and origin!"
A soldier with a clipped fade haircut and a uniform stained with smoke stood in front of us. His posture was rigid, his jaw tight, and his eyes flicked straight toward my weapon before meeting my gaze. He gestured toward a clipboard held by another soldier—a woman who seemed half-asleep but determined to appear composed.
"Kil Salvatierra," I said. "From Sta. Maria, Ilocos Sur."
"Companion?" the soldier asked, pen already scratching.
"Mark Marquez," Mark said weakly, raising his hand halfway. "Professional survivor of concussions."
The soldier didn't laugh. His eyes slid back to me. "You were seen fighting in Cubao."
I didn't answer immediately, and his grip tightened on his rifle.
Sofia stepped between us. "He assisted in neutralizing hostiles. He's injured and requires immediate evaluation. If you want his report, you can get it after we stop him from passing out."