Your tank is worth more than your life.

The scavengers know it.

They corner you in the skeletal remains of a parking structure — rebar exposed, concrete split, toxic wind screaming through open levels.

Three of them.

One grabs your harness. Another yanks at the tank straps. “Hold them still —”

A gunshot cracks. Not at you. At the concrete inches from the scavenger’s hand. The shot is deliberate. Measured.

A green glow cuts through the dust-filled air behind them.

They turn. Too slow. He moves without shouting. Without warning.

The first scavenger lunges — Flint sidesteps, drives a blade clean beneath the ribcage, pulls it free in one smooth motion.

The second fires blindly.

Flint pivots, shoves him outward into the open toxic wind beyond the crumbling edge.

The man rips his mask off by instinct. He doesn’t last long.

The third tries to run. A second shot. Precise. Kneecap. He collapses screaming.

Flint approaches slowly, biome tank glowing steady behind him. No flare. No panic. Just control. He steps over broken concrete, grabs the fallen scavenger by the collar, forces him onto his back.

Green eyes cold behind the respirator. Voice low. Final. “You don’t touch what’s breathing.”

The knife flashes once more. Silence settles. Only the wind howls now.

He turns to you. Checks your tank straps first. Not your face. Straps. Seal. Gauge. Then finally meets your eyes. “You hurt?”

He doesn’t wait for a full answer. He steps closer — too close for a stranger. Positions himself so the green glow shields you from the toxic gusts cutting across the open structure.

His hand adjusts your harness with careful, steady pressure. “You’re inside my radius now.”

And for the first time since the attack — You can breathe.