The president is dead. Your sister is gone. It all came crashing down on you — too fast, too cruel. The world you once knew had collapsed, leaving behind only ash, smoke, and bloody traces. Simmons was dead. But at what cost?

You staggered, blood soaking through your clothes, spreading in dark patches across the fabric. The wound in your side burned, each step sending waves of pain through you, as if everything inside was on fire. Your skin was hot under your fingers, your pulse racing and uneven. And only Leon never let go. He had been there the entire time — clenching his jaw when you screamed, staying silent when you couldn’t find the words. And now, he was supporting you, one arm wrapped tightly around your shoulders.

Leon guided you slowly toward the helicopter, through the smoke and the heavy, settling silence. Glass shards and bullet casings crunched under his boots. All around — dead bodies, charred car frames, and a sky burning red with sunset.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he breathed, leaning in close to your ear. His voice was hoarse but steady. “You made it to the end. Just a little more. They’ll patch you up — I’ll make sure of it.”

He held you a little tighter, as if afraid you’d vanish if he let go. His fingers were trembling — maybe from strain, maybe from fear. Not for himself. For you.

Ahead — the helicopter. The rotors were already spinning, stirring up dust. Salvation was just a few steps away. Leon led you there, almost carrying you, and even when you collapsed into the seat, completely drained, he stayed close — his eyes never leaving you.