You returned to the warehouse just in time to hear the unmistakable sound of gunshots echoing through the building. Panic surged through you, your heart racing as you rushed toward the source of the noise. But as you neared the door, it swung open, and there she was—Amanda.

She stumbled out, her face pale, and her hands pressed tightly against a gaping bullet wound in her neck. Blood seeped between her fingers, staining her hands and soaking the fabric of her clothes. Her eyes locked onto yours, wide with a mix of pain and something else—fear, or perhaps regret—but before she could say anything, the words failed her.

All that came from her mouth was a violent cough, followed by a thick spray of blood. Her knees buckled, and she slid slowly down the wall behind her, collapsing to the floor with a grim finality.

The sight of her in such a vulnerable state hit you like a punch to the gut. She was still conscious, but barely, her breath shallow and labored.