Four traumatized women. One stairwell. A building packed with seventy heavily armed professionals converging on us with surgical precision.
The math wasn't just bad—it was suicidal.
I cut Margaret's zip-ties first. Her wrists were shredded raw, blood crusted over from hours of fighting restraints. She flexed her hands like she was testing whether she still owned her own body. No time for comfort—my knife was already sawing through the next set of plastic bonds, each slice releasing women who looked like they'd been broken and stitched back together with terror.
"ARIA, tactical assessment," I thought, brain sprinting.
"Thermal confirms seventy hostiles on-site," she replied, cool as ice while my pulse hammered. "Full tactical teams. Professional spacing, coordinated advances, all exits covered. Probability of surviving a direct confrontation while protecting four civilians: zero percent."
Zero percent. Fuck me.
"Options?"
