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I’m on the ground.
And she’s the one holding the line.
And damn if she isn’t doing it perfectly.
Every move is calculated.
Every shot intentional.
No wasted motion.
No wasted ammo.
“She’s adapting…” I murmur.
Not to her.
To myself.
Because this?
This isn’t luck.
This is instinct.
Training—
She was made for this world.
Mila
Another burst of movement.
Closer this time.
Too close.
They’re learning.
Adjusting.
So do I.
I shift position—lower, tighter to the rock wall—change my angle—
Let them think I’m still where I was—
Footsteps approach—
Closer—
Closer—
Now.
I rise just enough—
Fire twice—
