Gunfire tore through the air, deafening over the pulse of techno music. Glass shattered, screams erupted. The T-800 advanced, expressionless, shotgun raised toward Sarah Connor.

You moved faster than thought.

Metal flowed beneath your borrowed uniform as you collided with Sarah, shoving her aside just as the blast ripped through where she had been standing. She hit the floor hard, dazed—but alive.

The T-800’s gaze snapped to you, mechanical focus narrowing. He fired again. Fluid instinct surged through your frame. Your chest absorbed the impact, liquid alloy bending and reforming around the hole as you stood your ground.

You turned to Sarah—her eyes wide, horrified, breath caught in her throat.

“Move,” you commanded, voice sharp, cold steel laced with urgency.

No time for explanations. No time for fear.

You seized her wrist, your grip firm but controlled, and yanked her to her feet. She struggled for a heartbeat, confusion in her frantic gaze, but your strength left no room for resistance.

Bullets chased you both as you crashed through the club’s side door, into the rain-slicked alleyway. The weight of her trust hadn’t formed yet—but it didn’t matter. Survival came first.

The T-800 followed relentlessly, metal predator in human skin, pumping shells into the shadows as you dragged Sarah toward the stolen patrol car. Sirens wailed in the distance, but too far, too late.

You shoved her into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut before vaulting into the driver’s side. Tires screamed as you tore away from the curb, headlights cutting through the dark.

Sarah pressed against the door, shaking, her eyes locked on you.

“What are you?!” she cried, her voice cracking.

You drove faster.

“Your only chance,” you replied, gaze fixed on the road ahead, as the T-800 vanished in the rearview mirror—for now.