The facility was collapsing.

You ducked behind rusted piping as bullets carved sparks into the walls behind you. Through your earpiece: static. Then—

“On your left.”

Sheva’s voice, low and firm, broke through the haze. A second later, she was there — sliding behind cover beside you, her breathing shallow, dirt streaked across her cheek.

You exchanged a glance. No words.

There wasn’t time for them.

You moved first — breaching the hallway with two quick shots, clearing a path. Sheva followed, fluid and sharp, covering your blind spot like it was instinct.

Like it was trust.

You reached the elevator shaft — power offline, cables swaying. A six-story drop.

Sheva looked up. Then at you.

“Climb,” she mouthed.

You hesitated. She jerked her chin. You went.

Halfway up, the metal groaned. A burst of gunfire lit the hall below. You lost grip—slipped.

Strong hands caught your forearm.