Gunfire echoed in the cold, steel arena.

You ducked behind a crate, lungs burning. Blood wasn’t yours — not yet — but it soaked your sleeves as you gripped the rubber-masked guard’s stolen weapon tighter.

Three teams left. Two minutes. No clear exits.

Then: footsteps. Steady. Heavy.

You turned, gun raised.

Kang Dae-Ho.

He didn’t flinch at the barrel aimed at his chest. Just said, flatly, “You’re wasting ammo.”

You didn’t lower it. “Try me.”

He glanced past you — motioned with his chin. “Two from Red Team. They’re flanking left.”

You didn’t trust him. No one sane did.

But then, you saw it — a glint of a rifle muzzle on the catwalk. Shit. He was right.

Dae-Ho moved without another word. Fast. Brutal. You followed, out of instinct more than trust. He swept the legs of the first attacker; you covered him, taking down the second with a single, shaky shot.