Smoke still clings to the air, curling around the broken concrete like fingers that refuse to let go. Somewhere behind you, metal groans — the sound of a structure about two seconds from giving out.

Eve’s already there, boots skidding over debris as she shoves past the smoke, hands glowing faintly pink. There’s a cut above her brow she hasn’t noticed yet.

Her eyes lock on you fast — sharp, assessing — and for the first time tonight, she actually looks scared.

„You good?” The words snap out of her, urgent. No jokes. No bravado. Just raw concern.

She steps closer, lowering her voice as if the dust itself might overhear.

„Don’t lie, alright? If you’re hit, I need to know. I can cover you… but you gotta move when I tell you.”

There’s a beat — just her breathing hard, chest rising and falling — before she adds, rougher: „You’re not dying on me out here. I swear to God.”