The explosion tore through the west wing.

Smoke. Screaming. Static in your earpiece. You hit the ground hard, shoulder first, and your vision spun as ceiling tiles crumbled.

Your only thought: Claire.

You clawed at your radio, coughing. “Claire—come in. Do you copy?”

Nothing.

The sound of gunfire echoed down the ruined hall. Bio-organic monstrosities shrieked in the distance, and you forced yourself up, every muscle screaming.

You had one objective now — find her.

She found you first.

You turned a corner, heart hammering, and she was just there — disheveled, bleeding at the temple, but alive. Breathing. Moving.

The moment your eyes locked, everything else went silent.