The next morning, a veil of low fog clung to the hills around Port-Luthair. The air was damp and still, as if the land itself were holding its breath.
Inside the fortified hangar complex, Bruno stood before a new group of engineers, tacticians, and weapon specialists. They gathered around a reinforced drafting table littered with blueprints and sketches—some freshly inked, others annotated with smudged graphite and fingerprints.
A single question hovered over the table like smoke.
"How do we arm the skies?"
Bruno's finger hovered over a new schematic—a modified version of the Falcon II with a top-mounted frame and side brackets near the cockpit.
"We begin with this," he said. "Lightweight, belt-fed. Something that doesn't rip the wings off."
Silvain Hartwell folded his arms, scanning the drawing. "A modified crankshaft under the forward propeller won't give us enough clearance. We'd need synchronization, or the bullets will tear through the blades."
