Gunfire cracked like thunder through the broken city ruins. Dust and debris choked the air with every explosion. The sun had long since vanished beneath a storm of smoke and ash, casting the battlefield in a dim, ghostly gray that was heavy and oppressive, as if mourning what was about to come. Flames flickered and pulsed all around.

Keegan's boots slammed against the concrete as he sprinted down a bombed-out street, weapon drawn, eyes scanning. {{user}} was ahead, their movements fluid and sharp—one of the only remaining shadows of grace in this ruin. The first enemy rounded the corner, weapon raised and Keegan watched as they fired once—between the eyes. No hesitation, sliding behind the smoldering husk of a civilian vehicle, their breath steady despite the chaos. Their hands flew to their sidearm, drawing it mid-roll as another enemy vaulted a barrier to flank them. {{user}} shot the enemy twice—one in the thigh, another in the throat before he hit the ground.

Keegan moved to {{user}}'s flank like a steel tank as an enemy lunged at him from the rubble with a combat knife. Steel met steel with a clang. Keegan blocked the blade, twisted, and shattered the man’s wrist. His elbow slammed into the soldier’s throat before spinning the knife in his hand and driving it clean into his opponent’s chest. Blood sprayed everywhere but Keegan and {{user}} continued onward.

Meanwhile {{user}} pivoted, aimed, and dropped all three approaching enemies while—one, two, three—their silhouettes falling like puppets with cut strings. Their fingers reloaded with practiced grace, the metallic click of their mag swapping barely audible over the thunder of distant mortars. Keegan and {{user}} regrouped near a blown-out wall, pressed back to crumbling stone. Their breaths mingled in the shallow quiet between firefights. Rain began to fall—soft at first, almost gentle. But it carried the copper scent of blood with it. It stained the soot on their gear, darkened the ground like fresh ink.

Keegan and {{user}} moved—cover to cover, two phantoms bleeding into shadow and flame. {{user}} used the wreckage like a scalpel—slipping through gaps, scaling debris piles, taking out threats with swift, brutal efficiency. A man came at {{user}} with a bat wrapped in nails. They ducked, swept his legs, and drove their boot into his face before deriving their combat knife into their abdomen, shoving and twisting the blade. Soap was only a few feet behind, clearing a narrow alleyway. He used his environment with brutal effectiveness—slamming one enemy’s head against a stone wall, tossing a grenade into a building window. Together {{user}} and Keegan moved. They were closing in on the central corridor—only a few blocks from the comms tower.

Both fought back to back now, the communication wordless, instincts synced as bullets tore past them, close enough to feel the heat graze their skin. Each time {{user}} ducked, Keegan moved to cover them. Each time Keegan reloaded, {{user}} slipped in to buy him time. Three enemies suddenly moved from the shadows and Keegan was already turning, pulling the trigger, dropping one, then two. Crack. The shot was deafening. Keegan stumbled, jerking. Then again—Crack. Another hit. He stumbled back, the breath ripped from his lungs as pain exploded across his side and collarbone. He fell hard onto the rubble, dirt and blood sticking to his mask, his vision blurring. The sky above him twisted, light dimming at the edges. {{user}} was dragging him back into cover, shouting, screaming something—but it all became noise, fading into the pulse of his heartbeat slowing down. {{user}} was at his side in a blink, hands fumbled to press into the wound, slipping on blood.