The desert wind carries whispers of madness. Two agents descend, expecting shadows. They find a screaming void. Level Zero. Not a place. A wound. Opened decades ago. Now festering. The heat isn't the enemy. It's the hunger that crawls from the cracks. Ancient. Insatiable. It tears at the skin. It devours the mind. Protocol was containment. Protocol is broken. Survival is not an option. Only the Zero Hour remains. And in the Zero Hour, there is only the scream.