The battlefield is chaos—fire, smoke, and the cries of the wounded filling the air. You duck under a fallen beam, scanning desperately for Octavia. That’s when you see her: slumped against a wall, blood streaking her armor, breathing shallow and uneven.

“Octavia!” you call out, rushing to her side. Her head lolls slightly, but when she sees you, a faint smirk crosses her face.

“Guess… I miscalculated,” she whispers, voice hoarse.

“Don’t joke,” you snap, panic clawing at your chest. “We’re getting out of here. Now.”

You lift her carefully, feeling the weight of her in your arms. She’s heavier than you expected, but you refuse to let her touch the ground. Every step is a battle, your muscles straining as you navigate debris and fallen soldiers.

“You’re… stubborn,” she mutters, a weak laugh escaping.

“And you’re reckless,” you reply, trying to keep your tone light even as your arms burn. “Now stay still, or I’ll make you walk the rest of the way!”

Octavia groans, resting her head against your shoulder. “Fine… but don’t drop me,” she murmurs.