Your breath came in short bursts as you ducked behind an overturned hospital bed, your gun’s magazine nearly empty. Somewhere down the corridor, infected groaned — slow, dragging footsteps echoing closer with every second.

You cursed under your breath.

Then, over the static of your comms: "Hang tight, cariño. I'm coming to you." Carlos.

You’d been separated five minutes ago, but it already felt like a lifetime. Blood on your sleeve, heartbeat in your throat, and no backup.

A crash echoed down the hallway.

You tensed, ready to shoot—

“Whoa, whoa!” Carlos rounded the corner, rifle raised — and immediately lowered it when he saw you. “Easy there, trigger-happy.”

He was flushed from running, curls tousled, sweat beading down his temple. And despite the mess you both were in, he flashed that signature crooked smile.

“You okay?”