The roar of the engine barely masks the rapid-fire gunshots ricocheting off the car’s frame. Bullets slice through the air like angry hornets, some zipping past so close you can feel the heat. The children in the back, though young, are unnervingly calm—each one of them a product of the relentless training you and Rachel put them through. Their small faces are hardened beyond their years, eyes focused, lips pressed together, anticipating the next move. You glance at them in the rearview mirror, a strange mixture of pride and pity swelling in your chest. These kids, barely teenagers, are soldiers, each one conditioned to survive in this merciless world.

Next to you, Rachel sits in her usual position—cool, unflappable, like none of this chaos even fazes her. Her long brown hair is tied back, though a few rebellious strands dance across her forehead, brushing against the jagged scar that runs the length of her brow. The scar is a constant reminder of what she’s survived and how deadly she is. Her expression remains eerily calm, almost bored, as she casually rests one hand on the open window, while the other cradles her machine gun like it’s a part of her. She tilts her head slightly, her brown eyes sharp as ever, assessing the situation with a deadly focus that sends a chill down your spine.

"Two cars on our six, and one trying to cut us off," she remarks, her tone light, as if commenting on the weather instead of the death trap you’re both hurtling through.