The night air was thick with the stench of burning rubber and gunpowder. Every street, every alley, was a risk. The Red Hand was out in full force, boots pounding against pavement, gunships circling overhead like vultures waiting for the kill.

Velkan gritted his teeth as he adjusted his grip on Kane, who was slumped between him and Doc. Every step was a battle. Kane wasn't just injured—he was wrecked. His body was a mess of broken ribs, deep bruises, and lacerations. His breathing was shallow, his weight dragging heavily on them both.

"Damn it," Doc muttered, shifting his hold as carefully as he could. "We need to find a place to stop. I can't keep him from bleeding out while running for our lives."

"Stopping isn't an option," Velkan snapped, glancing over his shoulder. They were being hunted. Even now, in the distance, the wailing of sirens and the distant shouts of soldiers echoed through the abandoned streets.

Ghost was ahead, moving like a shadow, checking every corner, every rooftop. "Clear," she whispered, waving them forward. But her voice was tight, urgent. They were running out of time.

Kane let out a groan as they stumbled over uneven pavement, his body jerking from the movement. Doc winced. "We're gonna end up killing him before they do if we keep this up."

Velkan didn't slow down. "Then let's make sure we're the ones who get to keep him alive."

Doc didn't argue. He just pressed a hand to Kane's side, trying to slow the bleeding, even as they ran deeper into the shadows.

The alleyways stretched before them like a labyrinth of darkness, the dim glow of the city's shattered infrastructure casting flickering shadows along the cracked pavement. Velkan's arms burned as he struggled to keep Kane upright, his weight pressing heavily against him. Every breath Kane took was shallow and labored, a painful wheeze escaping his lips every few steps. Doc was on his other side, trying his best to keep pressure on the worst of his wounds while still keeping them moving. The effort was futile—every step was agony for Kane, and they all knew it. But there was no time for comfort, no moment to stop and let him rest. The Red Hand was out in full force, their boots pounding against the streets in the distance, their shouts echoing through the city like the howl of hunting dogs. Even worse, the low, menacing hum of a gunship's engines rumbled overhead, sweeping searchlights flooding through the ruined buildings as it prowled above them like a mechanical beast scenting blood. Velkan's grip tightened as he pushed forward, dragging Kane with him even as his own muscles screamed in protest. He could feel the tension in Doc's movements too, the way his hands trembled slightly as he kept the pressure on Kane's wounds. They were running on fumes, their bodies barely holding together. Ghost was ahead, moving like a wraith, her silenced pistol at the ready as she checked every corner, every rooftop. When she turned back toward them, her voice was low and sharp.

"We can't keep moving like this."

Velkan let out a harsh breath, his jaw clenched. "You think I don't know that?" He glanced at Kane, whose head was lolling forward, his eyes barely open. He was losing him. The adrenaline that had kept Kane conscious was running out, and if they didn't find a place to hole up soon, he wouldn't make it.

Doc's voice was urgent now. "We need to stop the internal bleeding. If we don't, he's dead before sunrise." His fingers pressed against Kane's ribs, feeling the unnatural shift beneath the skin. Broken. Badly. The kind of injuries that needed a real med bay, not just field dressings and prayers.

Ghost exhaled sharply, looking over her shoulder at the rooftops. Watching. Listening. Then she pointed ahead, toward an old abandoned auto shop with its metal shutters half-collapsed and its windows shattered. "There. We lay low, patch him up, then we figure out our next move."

Velkan hesitated. Every instinct screamed at him to keep moving, to put more distance between them and the searchlights cutting through the night. But they weren't making it another mile carrying Kane like this.

"Fine," he muttered. "But make it quick."

Together, they dragged Kane toward the darkened building, slipping inside just as the gunship swept past above them.

The auto shop was a relic of the past—rusted tools scattered across broken workbenches, the walls covered in graffiti and peeling paint. The air smelled of old oil and dust, a stark contrast to the blood staining their clothes. Velkan and Doc carefully lowered Kane onto an overturned tire, his back propped against the crumbling concrete wall. His breathing was uneven, his face slick with sweat. Doc immediately dug into his medkit, pulling out a field syringe filled with a coagulant to slow the internal bleeding.

Ghost stood by the entrance, peering through the shattered window, her silenced pistol raised and ready. "No movement outside," she murmured, but her voice was tense. "For now."

Velkan exhaled sharply, rubbing his aching arms. "We need to get the hell out of this city."

Before Ghost could respond, a sound broke through the silence— a faint shuffle of movement from the darkness deeper in the shop.

Velkan's hand immediately went to his pistol. Ghost reacted even faster, pivoting on her heel and aiming toward the source of the noise. Doc stiffened but kept his focus on Kane, whose breathing had slowed to a shallow rasp.

Then—a voice. Low, calm, and deliberate.

"If I wanted you dead, you wouldn't have made it through that door."

A figure emerged from the shadows, stepping forward into the dim light filtering through the broken windows. Clad in dark tactical gear, a hood pulled low over their face, and a rifle slung across their chest. Their stance was relaxed, but there was no mistaking the readiness in their movements—this was someone used to war.

Velkan tightened his grip on his pistol. "Who the hell are you?"

The figure raised a gloved hand, a silent gesture of caution. "You've been making a lot of noise in the city," they said smoothly. "Too much. The Red Hand isn't the only group paying attention."

Ghost's aim didn't waver. "That doesn't answer the question."

The operative exhaled, then slowly pulled back their hood, revealing sharp, calculating eyes beneath a face smeared with dirt and sweat. "Call me Wren. I'm with the Resistance." Their gaze flicked to Kane, then to Doc's blood-stained hands. "And if you want your man to live, you're going to need our help."

Velkan and Ghost exchanged a glance. They weren't the trusting type. Too many traps, too many betrayals. But right now, they didn't have the luxury of doubt. Kane was dying, and they needed a way out of the city.

Velkan lowered his gun—but just slightly. "We're listening."

Wren gave a slight nod. "Good. Because time's running out."

Wren moved with careful efficiency, stepping closer while keeping her hands visible—smart. She knew they were on edge, knew that trust was something earned, not given. Her sharp gaze flicked over Fireteam Specter, assessing them the same way a predator sizes up a threat. When she stopped a few feet away, she knelt down beside Kane, her expression unreadable.

"He doesn't have long," she murmured.

Doc shot her a glare, his hands still pressing against Kane's side to slow the bleeding. "Yeah, no shit." He was exhausted, his voice raw with frustration, but he didn't stop working. "Unless you've got a fully stocked trauma unit hidden somewhere, we don't have time for lectures."

Wren's lips twitched—not quite a smirk, not quite amusement. "Something better," she said. "A safehouse. Medical supplies. And a way out of the city."

Ghost didn't lower her gun. "And what's the catch?"

"There's always a catch," Velkan added, voice flat. "No one helps for free."

Wren exhaled through her nose, as if she had expected the resistance. "You're right," she admitted. "We've been watching you since you hit that Red Hand facility. We know who you are, what you're trying to do. And we need you alive just as much as you need us."

Velkan frowned. "Why?"

She stood, crossing her arms. "Because you're the only ones pissing off the Dictator more than we are. And because if you survive long enough, you might actually have a shot at finishing what we started."

Silence hung between them. Heavy. Uncertain.

Then Kane coughed, a wet, painful sound that made Doc flinch. That settled it.

Velkan sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "Fine. We'll take your help." He gave Wren a sharp look. "But if this is a trap—"

"It's not."

Ghost finally lowered her pistol. "Then let's move. Before that gunship decides to come back."

Wren nodded and moved to the back of the auto shop, where a hidden entrance led into a series of old maintenance tunnels. Velkan and Doc hauled Kane up between them again, and Fireteam Specter followed their new ally into the darkness.

They had no reason to trust her.

But trust didn't matter right now.

Survival did.

The maintenance tunnels beneath the city were damp and claustrophobic, their walls slick with condensation and years of neglect. The air was thick with the scent of rust and mildew, a stark contrast to the burning city above. Wren led the way with practiced ease, her steps careful but swift. Fireteam Specter followed in tense silence, Kane's ragged breathing the only sound aside from the occasional drip of water from the cracked pipes above.

Velkan and Doc struggled to keep Kane upright, each step sending fresh pain through his battered body. He was barely conscious now, his head lolling forward, his weight growing heavier with every passing second. He was slipping.

"How much farther?" Velkan grunted, shifting Kane's arm over his shoulder. His muscles were screaming from the strain, but he pushed through it. Stopping wasn't an option.

"Not far," Wren answered, not looking back. "The safehouse is just past the next junction."

Ghost, walking a few paces behind, kept her pistol raised. "And what happens if we run into company down here?"

"You won't," Wren said, her voice steady. "These tunnels are old infrastructure, abandoned after the war. The Red Hand doesn't patrol them, and the Dictator's forces don't even know they exist."

Velkan exhaled sharply. "That doesn't mean we're alone."

Wren finally glanced back, her expression unreadable in the dim tunnel lighting. "No," she admitted. "It doesn't."

They pressed forward, their footsteps muffled against the damp concrete. The tunnel twisted and narrowed before finally opening into a larger chamber—an old underground checkpoint from before the war, now repurposed into something more.

The safehouse was built into the remains of a control station, its rusted metal doors reinforced with scrap plating and welded shut from the outside. Thick cables ran along the walls, disappearing into makeshift power sources scavenged from the city above. A dim red light flickered from the overhead lamps, casting the room in an eerie glow.

Wren approached a security panel near the door, punching in a code with practiced ease. A loud click echoed through the tunnel as the locks disengaged. She stepped aside, motioning them inside.

"Welcome to what's left of the resistance."

Velkan and Doc didn't hesitate. They carried Kane inside, moving past rows of old supply crates and salvaged gear. A battered medical station had been set up against the far wall, where an older man with sharp eyes and a gray beard sat cleaning a set of surgical tools.

He looked up, frowning as he saw Kane's condition. "Damn," he muttered, rising to his feet. "Get him on the table."

Doc wasted no time, guiding Kane onto the metal cot as gently as possible. Kane barely reacted, his body limp, his face pale.

Ghost stood near the door, keeping watch as Velkan turned to Wren. "You better hope your medic is as good as you say."

Wren folded her arms. "He is."

The old man—clearly more than just a field medic—grabbed a syringe and injected something into Kane's arm before checking his pulse. "He's stable, but he's not out of the woods yet." His sharp eyes flicked to Doc. "You did good keeping him alive this long."

Doc exhaled, running a hand down his face. "Yeah, well... it wasn't easy."

The medic nodded, then turned to Wren. "Get them something to eat. They're running on fumes."

Wren hesitated, then gave a short nod. "Follow me."

Velkan didn't move immediately. His eyes lingered on Kane, whose breathing was still too shallow, his body still too fragile. They had come too close to losing him.

But for now, they had a moment to breathe.

And they were going to need it.

Because the fight wasn't over yet. Not even close.

Velkan lingered by Kane's bedside, arms crossed, watching the medic work with precise efficiency. He hated this feeling—the helplessness. They had fought tooth and nail to get Kane out of that hellhole, and now his life was in someone else's hands. Doc hovered nearby, clearly resisting the urge to step in, but the old man—who Wren had called "Rael"—seemed to know what he was doing.

Rael finished checking Kane's vitals and adjusted a makeshift IV drip. "He's got internal bleeding," he muttered, not looking up. "If we had proper equipment, I could do surgery. But out here?" He shook his head. "I can stabilize him, maybe keep him alive long enough for real treatment."

Velkan's jaw tightened. "That's not good enough."

Rael met his gaze, unfazed. "Then find me a hospital that hasn't been bombed to hell, and we'll talk." He turned back to Kane, sighing. "For now, let him rest. If he wakes up in the next few hours, he's got a fighting chance."

Velkan nodded slowly. It wasn't what he wanted to hear, but it was reality.

Ghost appeared in the doorway, her voice low and sharp. "We need to talk."

Velkan took one last glance at Kane, then followed her out of the room. Doc hesitated before doing the same. Outside, Wren stood with two other resistance operatives, a man and a woman, both dressed in the same mix of scavenged tactical gear. The tension in the air was thick.

"Start talking," Velkan said.

Wren didn't waste time. "The Red Hand is still tearing through the city looking for you. They've locked down the major roads, set up checkpoints, and doubled patrols. You're not getting out the way you came in."

Velkan exhaled sharply. "Figures."

The male resistance operative, a wiry man with dark eyes and a rifle slung over his back, spoke next. "That's not the worst of it." He exchanged a glance with Wren before continuing. "We intercepted a transmission. The Dictator's Smiling Demons are in the city."

Ghost stiffened, and even Doc muttered a quiet curse.

Velkan's expression darkened. "How many?"

The female operative—short, muscular, with a scar running down her cheek—crossed her arms. "Don't know. But if they're here, it means one thing: they're expecting you to run, and they're already cutting off your exits."

The room went quiet.

Velkan ran a hand down his face. The Smiling Demons weren't just any unit. They were the Dictator's personal executioners, the ones sent in when normal soldiers weren't enough. If they were in the city, it meant the regime was done playing games.

"We need a way out," Ghost said, her voice cold.

Wren nodded. "We have one. But it's risky."

"Of course it is," Doc muttered.

Wren ignored him. "There's an old subway line beneath the city—the kind that doesn't show up on modern maps. It was used before the war for government evacuations. We think parts of it still exist, but—"

"The tunnels could be collapsed," Velkan guessed.

"Or worse," Wren confirmed. "The Dictator's forces may have booby-trapped them."

Doc shook his head. "And this is our best option?"

Wren's expression was grim. "It's your only option."

Velkan sighed. There was no choice. Kane wasn't surviving another high-speed chase or another firefight. If they had any chance of getting out alive, they had to move now.

"Fine," he said. "We'll take the tunnels."

Wren nodded, but her gaze was wary. "Then we move at first light. And pray we're the only ones down there."