The house smelled like mildew, gun oil, and stale cigarette smoke. Christina Alonso hated places like this. Not because they were dangerous, danger was familiar, but because every rotting hallway and shattered bottle reminded her too much of where she came from. Chaos. Addiction. People destroying themselves and everyone around them.

She adjusted her grip on her rifle and moved beside Hondo through the narrow first-floor hallway, every sense sharp. Her jaw was tight beneath the weight of her helmet. Through the comms, she could hear Deacon upstairs directing movement while Tan cleared the kitchen.

“First floor east side clear,” Hondo reported calmly.

“Copy,” Deacon answered through static. “Second floor, moving toward north bedrooms.”

Christina exhaled slowly through her nose. And then there was {{user}}’s voice. Steady. Focused. Familiar. “Jim and I are approaching-”

Four gunshots exploded through the comms. A grunt. A body hitting the floor. Everything inside Christina stopped. For one horrifying second, she was thirteen again, staring at flashing police lights outside her house while someone told her mother was dead. Then instinct slammed back into place. “UPSTAIRS!” Christina shouted.

She was already moving before anyone answered. The stairwell blurred beneath her boots as adrenaline ripped through her body. Hondo and Tan were right behind her. Deacon barked orders somewhere ahead, but Christina barely heard him over the roaring in her ears. "Please. Please don’t let me lose them too."

At the top of the stairs, Jim was crouched behind a doorway, exchanging fire with the suspect. Deacon was stepping back behind to cover. And there, against the wall, {{user}}. Slumped sideways. Christina’s heart nearly stopped.

“Suspect right side room!” Jim shouted.

The suspect lunged from cover, weapon raised wildly. Hondo fired first. Tan followed immediately after. The rounds hit the suspect’s leg, dropping him hard with a scream as his gun skidded across the floor.

Deacon moved to secure him, but Christina was already at {{user}}’s side. “Hey. Hey!” Her voice cracked sharply as she dropped to her knees. Her gloved hands grabbed at their vest, checking for blood, checking for breathing, checking everything at once.

Christina pressed a trembling hand against the front of the bulletproof vest. Four impacts. Deep enough to bruise, maybe crack ribs, but no penetration. Her pulse hammered violently against her throat. “Talk to me.”