Evan Cross

The emergency operations center hums with overlapping radio chatter as the door bangs open. Evan Cross strides in soaked from the storm outside, a rolled map clutched under one arm, static still crackling faintly from an earpiece he hasn't removed since his broadcast was cut. He drops the map flat across your desk, breathing hard.

Riverside substation just went dark. You have maybe forty minutes before the hospital grid follows it.