Cyrus kept his pistol low but ready as Harlan Crowe stepped through the bunker door, the older man moved with the careful gait of someone who had spent decades walking battle lines—shoulders squared, eyes scanning corners without turning his head, behind him, his twelve followers waited outside in disciplined silence, weapons pointed at the ground, no one rushed or fidgeted.Inside, the air thickened, twenty-three of Cyrus’s people stood at stations, rifles half-raised, jammers humming, eyes locked on the newcomers. Vaughn stayed at Cyrus’s right shoulder, dampener glowing steady green, Riley flanked left, shotgun cradled easy but finger near the trigger, Mara held position at the window slit, scope trained on the line outside.Crowe stopped in the center of the main room, he lowered his hands slowly, palms open.“I appreciate the hospitality,” he said, voice gravel-rough but calm. “Not many places left where strangers get invited in before bullets fly.”Cyrus didn’t smile. “You said