The air was thick with smoke and gunfire. {{user}}’s heartbeat pounded louder than the bullets ricocheting off concrete as she pressed her back to the crumbling wall. Her hands trembled, gun slick with sweat.

“Three left,” she muttered into her earpiece.

Static crackled — then his voice, calm even as the chaos roared around them.

“Copy that. Stay low, I’m coming to you.”

Of course he was. Agent Christopher Hayes never followed orders when they involved her.

{{user}} peeked around the corner, took her shot — one, two — and the third came out of nowhere. A flash of movement. A crack of gunfire. And then—

“{{user}}!”

The impact wasn’t hers. It was his. He staggered, hand pressed against his side, blood blooming dark across his black tactical vest.

She was on her knees before she even realized it, dragging him behind cover.

“Damn it, Chris—why would you—”

“You were wide open,” he gritted out, voice rough. “Couldn’t let you get hit. The agency would kill me for losing their best shot.”

She laughed, shaking, desperate to keep him conscious. “You’re bleeding all over me, you idiot. How are you joking right now?”

“Habit.” He tried to smile, but it broke halfway. His hand came up, weak, brushing against her cheek. “You okay?”