Training takes over. I push Savannah down, covering her with my body. Frost and Flint engage simultaneously—controlled pairs, perfect rhythm. Frost drops two hostiles in the fatal funnel. Flint takes out the breacher. The space fills with gunfire, concrete dust, and screaming ricochets.
"Reloading," Frost calls.
"Covering," Flint responds instantly, increasing his rate of fire to suppress the entry point while Frost swaps magazines. Three seconds later, they reverse—Flint reloading, Frost covering.
Like breathing.
"Almost there." Savannah keeps typing beneath me, even with bullets sparking off the server housing inches from her head.
Frost takes a round in the shoulder, spins, but keeps shooting. We're being overrun—too many hostiles, not enough cover.
This is it. This is the moment. Tyler's death replays in my mind—the hesitation, being three seconds too late, watching fire consume him.
Not again. Not her.
"FROST! FLINT! DEMO CHARGES!"
They get it immediately. Flint pulls C4 from his pack. Not to blow the chemicals—that would be catastrophic—but the ceiling. Bring it down, create a barrier.
But it'll trap us in here.
"Done!" Savannah shouts. "Protocols corrupted, distribution system locked out."
"Move!"
I haul her up, and we run for the secondary exit. Flint triggers the charges, the explosion deafening. The ceiling comes down in a cascade of concrete and rebar. But the debris doesn't fall evenly—a massive chunk breaks free directly above Savannah.
Time slows.
Three seconds. That's what I had with Tyler. Three seconds to act or watch someone die.
I don't hesitate.
I hit Savannah with my full body weight, driving her clear as the concrete crashes down. My left leg doesn't make it—the edge of the debris catches it, crushing weight that snaps bone and tears muscle.
The pain is immediate and absolute, but she's alive. She's alive, and that's all that matters.
"SAWYER!" She scrambles back to me, hands on my face, my chest, checking for damage.
"Get out," I grit through the pain. "Frost, Flint, get her out."
"Not leaving you." She's crying now, trying to lift the concrete. "I'm not letting you die for me."
"Building's coming down." Brady's voice through comms. "All teams evac now."
Frost and Flint are already moving—Frost with a pry bar on the debris, Flint pulling a second bar from his pack. They work to leverage the weight while Savannah pulls at my vest. The concrete shifts enough—barely enough—and they drag me free. My leg is mangled, useless, blood pooling fast.
"Move, move, move."
Frost takes one arm, Flint the other, and they carry me between them. Every step is agony, every jostle threatens toblack me out. But Savannah's voice keeps me conscious—fierce, determined, refusing to let me go.
We burst out of the building as explosions rip through it—not the chemicals, but the infrastructure. Trucks are burning, and distribution systems are destroyed. Prometheus's attack dies in a blaze of flame and twisted metal.
"Medic!" Savannah screams as we clear the perimeter.
Flint's already on the radio. "Guardian Actual, Hawk is down. Severe leg trauma, significant blood loss. Need immediate evac."
The team medics converge. They assess my injuries instantly—tourniquets, pressure bandages, IV lines. But I only see Savannah's face—dirty, tear-streaked, beautiful, and alive.
