Round 219

Silra's voice cuts through the tension like a knife, cold and sharp. She doesn't flinch from Halie's glare—she meets it head-on with that infuriatingly rational calm she always defaults to in crisis. Her hands move methodically as she lays out the equipment on the floor between them: heavy steel plates, industrial-strength adhesives, fittings designed for exactly this kind of structural emergency. The building groans again, louder this time—a sound like ancient bones creaking under strain. Plaster dust rains down from the ceiling in a fine mist, settling on everything. She's already calculating angles and load distributions in her head—it's obvious in the way her eyes track along the stressed beams overhead. "We have maybe three minutes before this entire floor collapses," she says flatly. "And you're having a moral debate about how I choose to manage Jeane? Prioritize."