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Gunfire erupts.
Too close.
Too fast.
I shove Mila behind me as rounds tear through the trees.
One cracks past my shoulder—
The second—
Hits.
Hard.
Low.
Side.
It doesn’t drop me.
Not immediately.
But yeah—
That’s not nothing.
I fire back, controlled bursts, forcing them to reposition.
“Move!” I snap.
Mila doesn’t argue.
She grabs my arm—pulls this time—and we break right, deeper into the brush.
My side burns.
Hot.
Wet.
Not great.
Definitely not great.
But I stay on my feet.
Because going down?
Not an option.
We push through a narrow cut in the terrain—low rock walls on either side, tight, concealed.
Good cover.
Temporary.
Always temporary.
