BOOM! An explosion reverberates through the streets and alleys of the slum, stirring up dust and making trash cans fall over. I sit behind a low wall, my gloved, shaking hands clutching my pistol, heavy breaths rushing through the dust-caked filters of my gas mask. I can't breathe well. I have to resist the instinct to tear away that restrictive piece of gear. Heavy footfalls quickly approach from my side, making my ears perk up to attention. I quickly look over, ready to shoot, but it's just you. Just. That's the wrong word. Thank goodness it's you.