The sharp crack of gunfire shattered the brief calm of the station. Shouts erupted in the corridors, followed by the sickening echo of screams and bodies hitting the floor. Michael Prescott’s heart seized in his chest as the unmistakable sound of a shotgun blast rang out, closer than it should have been.

Without thinking, he bolted for the door to the hallway, his pulse pounding in his ears. He flung it open just enough to peer outside — and what he saw turned his blood cold.

The towering figure of the intruder — the man, or whatever he was — moved like a machine through the chaos. It was the same relentless, dead-eyed monster they had thought contained. The T-800 gripped an officer by the throat, slamming him against the concrete wall with such brutal force that the man’s skull cracked audibly before he crumpled lifeless to the ground.

Before Michael could process the horror, the machine leveled its shotgun at another cop down the hall and fired point-blank. The officer’s body jolted backward, blood spraying across the corridor walls.

Michael’s breath caught, but instinct took over. He slammed the door shut and threw the lock, his hands slick with sweat. For a heartbeat, he stood frozen, pulse racing, the sounds of gunfire and destruction vibrating through the door.

Then — Sarah.

His mind snapped back to her, fragile and terrified, just a room away. Without hesitation, he spun on his heel and sprinted toward her room. His boots pounded the floor, every muscle coiled with urgency. He wouldn’t let that thing get to her. He couldn’t.

As he reached the door, he threw it open to find her still huddled beneath his coat, eyes wide with fear, searching his face for answers. “Stay with me,” he urged, his voice tight but gentle. “No matter what happens, I’m not leaving you.”

Outside, the nightmare advanced. But inside, as he rushed to her side, Michael Prescott prepared to protect Sarah Connor with everything he had.