Day 177. 18:00 hours.
The crater rim.
The field hospital.
The twenty-four hours were ending.
Alessia stood beside the cot. Her blue eyes on the chest tube. The drainage bag had been full of dark blood yesterday. Now it was lighter. The fluid was less. The lung was healing. The tissue was closing.
The lung was re-expanding. The chest tube was draining less. The femur was still cracked. The traction splint was still holding. The morphine was still in his blood. Four auto-injectors. A man who had been sleeping for twenty-four hours.
Alessia's blue eyes went to Jae-min's face. His dark eyes closed. His mouth was not bloody anymore. She had cleaned it. With a cloth and saline. She had not been the wife while she cleaned. She had been the doctor. The doctor who cleaned her husband's face and did not cry. Because crying was not helping.
The field hospital was quiet. A tent that held the captain. And Yue. And Gabriel. And Mark Jordan. Three patients on cots. One patient on a cot that was the captain. A man sleeping while his team was broken.
Yue was on a cot. Her marble eyes closed. A woman with a collapsed lung and cracked ribs. Sleeping. Not leading. Healing. Slowly.
Gabriel was on a cot. Her gold eyes closed. A woman with cracked ribs and compressed lungs and shell residue. Sleeping. Not flying. Healing. Slowly.
Mark Jordan was on a cot. His amber eyes closed. A man with near-asphyxiation and oxygen deprivation. A brain that was still unknown. Alessia had assessed him. Had not gotten a clear answer. A doctor who was afraid. A patient whose brain was damaged and was not healing. Not naturally. Not fast enough.
Alessia had not used the Healing Hands.
Not because she could not. She could. She had the active ability to heal wounds, accelerate recovery, repair tissue through contact. Her Life power could close wounds and knit bones and re-expand lungs. She could fix everything.
She had not used it. Because of the consequences.
The Healing Hands divided cells. Faster. A power that accelerated recovery by accelerating cell division. Cells that normally divided at a natural rate. A rate evolved over millions of years. Fast enough to heal. Slow enough to not break.
The Healing Hands made cells divide too fast. And too fast had consequences.
First: aging. Cells that divided faster shortened their telomeres. The caps that protected chromosomes eroded. The DNA frayed. The person aged. Months. Maybe a year. Depending on the wound. A body whose biological age increased. A price paid in time.
Second: mutation. Cells that divided faster made mistakes. DNA replication that was not perfect. Errors in the genetic code. Cells that mutated. Cells that could become cancer. Tumors that formed. A death sentence waiting in the DNA of a person who had been healed too fast.
Third: cellular damage. Cells forced to divide faster than they could sustain depleted the body. Burned out. The body became fragile. Weak. Not immediately. Over time. A slow tax on the body. On the life.
Alessia had not used the Healing Hands. Because the consequences were aging, mutation, cancer risk, cellular damage. A power that healed and took. Gave with one hand and took with the other.
A doctor who had three patients. And could heal them. And did not. Because the price was too high. A doctor who had sworn to do no harm. And the Healing Hands were harm.
So she had used the chest tube. The traction splint. The morphine. The saline. The gauze. Everything she had that was not the Healing Hands. And the strike team was healing. Slowly. Naturally. Without consequences. But too slow. Not enough. The captain was sleeping. The war was on. And the Healing Hands were not used.
— • • • —
Day 177. 19:00 hours.
Jae-min's dark eyes opened.
Not slowly. Not gently. A man who had been sleeping for twenty-four hours and was awake. A captain who was back. A man who had been somewhere else and was now here.
His dark eyes found the tent. The field hospital. The cots. The patients. Yue. Eyes closed. Gabriel. Eyes closed. Mark Jordan. Eyes closed. Three people who were broken.
His dark eyes went to Alessia. Standing beside his cot. Her blue eyes on him. A doctor who had been waiting and was now seeing. A doctor whose husband was awake.
"Alessia." Jae-min breathed, his voice low. Rough. A throat that had not been used in twenty-four hours.
"Jae-min." Alessia offered, her voice gentle. Her blue eyes wet. A doctor who was, for one moment, not the doctor. Was the wife. A woman who had been the doctor for twenty-four hours and was now not. Because her husband was awake.
"The team." Jae-min breathed, his dark eyes on the cots. On Yue. On Gabriel. On Mark Jordan. A captain who saw a professor on a cot. Eyes closed. Not measuring. Not dry. Sleeping. A man with a brain that was damaged.
"What happened?" Jae-min pressed, his voice low.
Alessia told him.
The team had been put through the blender.
The Snake Woman's new adaptations. Twelve meters. Twelve arms. Mineral shells. Yue launched. Collapsed lung. Cracked ribs. Gabriel caught. Squeezed. Shell-trapped. Cracked ribs. Compressed lungs. Mark Jordan. Shell on the face. Near-asphyxiation. Oxygen deprivation. Brain unknown.
The woman in white. The only one standing. Carried all three out. A woman who had gone through the blender and was whole because of regeneration.
Jae-min's dark eyes went flat. A captain who understood. His team was broken. A strike team that had fought without him and had been chewed up. Not fighting. Healing. Slowly. Not enough.
"Heal them." Jae-min pressed, his voice low.
Alessia's blue eyes went wide. A doctor who understood what he was asking. A captain who was asking for the Healing Hands. A power she had not used. Because of the consequences.
"Jae-min." Alessia offered, her voice clinical. The doctor. Not the wife. "The Healing Hands. I cannot. The consequences. The cell division accelerates. The telomeres shorten. The mutation risk. The cancer risk. The cellular damage. The price is too high. I cannot do that to them. To Yue. To Gabriel. To Mark Jordan. I cannot heal them and take years from their lives. And give them cancer. I cannot."
"Heal them." Jae-min pressed again, his voice low. Not asking. Telling. A captain who was commanding. A man who had a broken team and a war and no choice.
"Jae-min. The consequences." Alessia pressed, her voice clinical.
"I know the consequences." Jae-min pressed, his dark eyes on hers. "And I am telling you. Heal them. Because the war is not over. And the Snake Woman is not dead. And the strike team is broken. If we let them heal naturally, the Snake Woman will have time. To grow. To adapt. To become more than she already is. She is already twelve meters. Twelve arms. Mineral shells. If we wait, we lose. Heal them. Take the price. The price is years. The price is cancer risk. The price is cellular damage. The price is high. But the price of losing is higher. Heal them."
Alessia looked at him. Her blue eyes wet. Her jaw tight. A doctor who was not agreeing. Was understanding. A doctor who had a captain telling her to heal and a consequence she did not want to pay and no choice. A doctor who had sworn to do no harm. And the harm was the healing and the healing was the harm.
"The aging." Alessia offered, her voice clinical. Explaining the price. "Each application accelerates cell division. The telomeres shorten. For every wound I heal, the patient ages. Months. Maybe a year. Yue's lung. Collapsed. The tissue damage is significant. Healing it will age her. Gabriel's ribs. Cracked. Lungs compressed. Healing will age her. Mark Jordan. The oxygen deprivation. The brain. Healing the brain is the most complex. The cell division required to repair oxygen-deprived brain tissue is significant. Healing him will age him. A year. Maybe more. And the mutation risk. Every cell division introduces errors. The cancer risk. For the rest of their lives. And the cellular damage. The cells burn out. The body becomes fragile. Over time. A slow tax on their bodies. On their lives."
"I know." Jae-min pressed, his dark eyes on hers. "Heal them."
Alessia looked at him. For one moment. A doctor who was not healing. And then she moved. To Yue. First.
— • • • —
Alessia's hands went to Yue's chest. The Healing Hands flowing. A Life power accelerating cell division. Fast. Too fast. The lung tissue closing. The alveoli reforming. The lung re-expanding. Not slowly. Not naturally. Fast. In seconds. The ribs knitting. The cracks closing. The fractures gone. A ribcage healed.
Yue's marble eyes opened. A woman who had been sleeping and was awake. A woman whose lung was healed. Whose ribs were healed. Whose body was whole.
Alessia's hands shook. Hands that had used the Healing Hands and were feeling the cost. The knowledge. A doctor who had aged her patient. By months. Maybe a year. A doctor who had shortened a life to save it.
She moved to Gabriel. Her hands on Gabriel's chest. The Healing Hands flowing. The ribs knitting. The lungs re-expanding. The shell residue dissolving. A substance that was gone. A woman who was whole.
Gabriel's gold eyes opened. Bright. The bright was back. A woman whose bright had been gone and was now not.
Alessia's hands shook more. Hands that had healed two patients and were feeling the cost. Twice. A doctor who had aged two patients.
She moved to Mark Jordan. Her hands on his head. The Healing Hands flowing into the brain. The most dangerous. The most complex. Neurons that did not normally divide. Being forced to divide. To repair the oxygen-deprived tissue. Synapses reconnecting. A brain healing. Fast.
Mark Jordan's amber eyes opened. A man who had been sleeping and was awake. A man whose brain was healed. Whose airway was clear. Whose body was whole.
Alessia's hands shook badly. Hands that had healed three patients. Three times. A doctor who had aged three patients. And for Mark Jordan, maybe more. The brain healing was the most expensive. A doctor who had taken more from Mark Jordan than from the others.
"Done." Alessia offered, her voice clinical. Her hands shaking. Her blue eyes wet. A doctor who had done the thing she had sworn not to do. Used the Healing Hands. Paid the price. Three times. Aged her patients to save them.
Jae-min looked at her. His dark eyes on hers. A captain who was grateful. A man who had asked and received. A captain whose team was healed. Whole. Enough to fight.
"Thank you." Jae-min offered, his voice low.
"Do not thank me." Alessia offered, her voice clinical. Not gentle. Clinical. A doctor who was not accepting thanks for the Healing Hands. A power that had taken from her patients.
"They will be weaker." Alessia offered, her voice clinical. "Over time. The cells burn out. Not immediately. But over months. Years. They will be fragile. And the cancer risk is there. For the rest of their lives. Every cell division I forced. Every error I introduced. It is there. In their bodies. Waiting. A shadow on their lives."
"I know." Jae-min confirmed, his voice low. "And I am sorry. But the war."
"The war." Alessia echoed, her voice clinical. "The war takes everything. Even the years we do not have."
— • • • —
Day 177. 20:00 hours.
The crater rim.
Reyes and Vasquez stood at the field hospital. Two commanders who had come to ask. Two commanders who had been holding the perimeter for twenty-four hours. Two commanders who needed to know.
"Doctor." Reyes offered, his voice low, his dark eyes on Alessia. "The captain. How is he?"
Alessia looked up. Her blue eyes clinical. Her hands still shaking. The hands of a doctor who had just aged three patients and was now being asked about her husband.
"Captain Del Rosario is awake." Alessia offered, her voice clinical. "The chest tube is draining. The lung is re-expanding. The femur is cracked. The traction splint is holding. The morphine is wearing off. He is conscious. He is not fully healed. But he is awake."
"Awake." Vasquez echoed. The steady of a captain who was hearing the word awake and was holding onto it.
"And the strike team." Reyes pressed. "Can they fight?"
Alessia looked at the three cots. Yue. Gabriel. Mark Jordan. Three people who had been broken and were now healed. Healed by a power that had taken years from their lives.
"The strike team is healed." Alessia offered, her voice clinical. "Yue. Collapsed lung. Healed. Gabriel. Cracked ribs. Healed. Mark Jordan. Oxygen deprivation. Healed. They are whole. They can fight."
"Healed." Reyes echoed. The echo of a commander who had heard the word healed and was counting. The strike team was back. The captain was awake. The war was winnable.
"But there is a cost." Alessia pressed, her voice clinical. "The healing was not natural. It was forced. The cellular damage. The aging. They are healed. But they are. Different. Weaker. Not immediately. But the cost is there. In their bodies. For the rest of their lives."
"The cost." Vasquez offered, her voice steady. The steady of a captain who understood cost. A captain whose unit was two. A captain who had lost soldiers to bullets and acid and cold and knew that cost was the only constant in a war.
"The cost is years." Alessia offered, her voice clinical. "Years they will not have. Because I used them today. To save them. So they could fight."
She paused. Her blue eyes on the two commanders. The eyes of a doctor who was not the wife. Was the doctor. But was also a woman who had just shortened three lives to save them.
"The captain is not healed." Alessia continued. "He refused the Healing Hands. He is fighting hurt. The lung is healing naturally. The femur is cracked. He cannot run. He cannot dodge. But he can fight. He says."
"He says." Reyes echoed. The echo of a commander who had heard a captain say he could fight and was believing it. Because the captain had fought with a collapsed lung and a cracked femur before. And had put the Snake Woman down.
"He can fight," Alessia confirmed. "But he is not whole. He is fighting hurt. And the strike team is healed but weakened. And the war is on."
"The war is on," Vasquez confirmed. "And the captain is awake. And the strike team is healed. And the war is on."
The two commanders left the field hospital. Walking back to the perimeter. Two commanders who had asked and had heard. The captain was awake. The strike team was healed. The war was on.
— • • • —
Day 177. 20:30 hours.
The crater rim.
The strike team stood. Three of them. Jae-min. Ji-yoo. The woman in white. Three of a strike team that was not the full six. Yue, Gabriel, and Mark Jordan were healed but weak. Staying at the crater rim. Healed. But not enough to fight. Not yet.
Jae-min stood. On both legs. The femur was not healed. Still cracked. The morphine was wearing off. The pain was there. The leg. The lung. A body that was not whole. But enough. To fight.
"Alessia." Jae-min pressed, his voice low. "The leg. The lung. Heal me."
"No." Alessia offered, her voice clinical. Refusing. "The Healing Hands. I have used them three times. The consequence is significant. I am not using them on you. Your lung is healing naturally. The chest tube is working. The femur is cracked, not broken. You can fight without the Healing Hands."
"Alessia." Jae-min pressed.
"No." Alessia pressed, her voice clinical. The doctor. Not the wife. "You can fight without the Healing Hands. You fought with a collapsed lung and a cracked femur yesterday. You stood up. You used the gun-kata. You used the anti-tank rifle. You can fight. I am not taking years from your life. Not from you."
The last three words were not clinical. The words of a wife who was not the doctor. A woman who would not take years from her husband's life. Even if it meant he fought hurt.
Jae-min looked at her. A captain who understood the wife. Not the doctor. The wife. Who would not take years from him.
"Okay." Jae-min offered, his voice low. "I fight hurt."
"You fight hurt." Alessia confirmed, her voice clinical. The doctor. "But you fight. And you come back. You come back."
"I come back." Jae-min confirmed.
— • • • —
Day 177. 20:30 hours.
The cavity.
The chamber.
Three figures descended. Through the tunnel. Through the organic walls that pulsed and breathed. Jae-min. Ji-yoo. The woman in white. The core. The Del Rosario twins and the woman in white.
The chamber opened. Thirty meters across now. The walls eaten. The Snake Woman at the center. Twelve meters tall. Twelve arms. Titanium scales. Gold eyes. A woman who had been expecting them. A woman who had felt them coming through the walls.
"The captain." The Snake Woman offered, her voice low. Surprised. A woman who had thought he was dead. A woman who had put a cable through his lung and thought that was enough. Wrong. "The captain is awake. And walking. And here. With his twin. And the woman in white. The three of you. Against me."
"The three of us." Jae-min confirmed, his dark eyes on the Snake Woman. A captain who was standing. On a leg that was cracked. With a lung that was healing. A body that was not whole. But here. Back. Fighting.
"Ji-yoo." Jae-min pressed, his voice low. "The gravity. Maximize the gravity point on the Snake Woman. Pin her. Limit her movement. The arms need room to swing. If you pin her, she cannot swing. She cannot reach. She is stationary. And we fight."
"I pin her," Ji-yoo confirmed, her voice fierce. Her dark eyes on the Snake Woman. Soulcleaver manifested. The eight-foot blade of compressed gravitational energy. But not for cutting. Not for the dimensional punch. For the gravity. A woman whose power was the field. A woman who could generate gravitational force equal to the Sun's pull.
"Woman in white." Jae-min pressed, his dark eyes on the woman in white. "With me. Dual. Katanas and Glocks and arnis and everything. We fight together."
The woman in white nodded. Once. A woman who did not speak and was accepting. A woman who was going to fight beside the captain. The woman who loved him and was not telling. Was showing. With the katanas. With the Glocks.
Ji-yoo raised her hand. The gravity focused. Concentrating on a point. Above the Snake Woman. A gravity field forming.
She pushed. The gravity point descended. Onto the Snake Woman. A force pressing down. The Sun's pull. On the Snake Woman.
The Snake Woman staggered. A body being pulled down. Twelve meters tall and not standing straight. Bent. Legs bending. Knees giving. A body being pressed to the floor. Twelve arms heavy. Cables on the floor. Arms that could not lift. A woman pinned by the Sun's gravity.
"Now." Ji-yoo pressed, her voice fierce. Her hand on the gravity point. Holding it. The anchor. A twin who was holding the Snake Woman while her brother and the woman in white fought.
Jae-min and the woman in white moved.
— • • • —
It looked like a tango.
Not a metaphor. Not a comparison. The two of them moved around the Snake Woman the way a pair of dancers move around a floor.
Close.
Locked in.
Bodies angled toward each other. The space between them measured in inches.
Jae-min's left hand was empty, extended, as if holding a partner's back.
The woman in white's right shoulder was turned in toward his chest, her body angled to mirror his, katanas low at her hips.
They circled the pinned Snake Woman in a slow, deliberate gravitation. The closed hold of a dance that had no music and did not need any.
The Snake Woman's twelve arms were heavy.
Dragging.
Pinned by Ji-yoo's gravity point. They could not swing. Could not reach. They twitched against the floor like the limbs of something pinned under glass.
And around them, around her, Jae-min and the woman in white danced.
Jae-min's right hand went into the void.
Came out with the dual Glock 19s. In the same motion he stepped in.
Close.
The way a tango lead steps in. His chest nearly touching the woman in white's shoulder.
He fired both Glocks past her. The Wormhole Guided Bullets wormholed. Emerged behind the Snake Woman's eyes. The gold eyes burst. The ichor sprayed. Dark. Steaming. The Snake Woman screamed.
And in the same beat Jae-min's left hand pressed the air at the woman in white's back.
Not touching.
Guiding.
She pivoted on her left foot. A sharp quarter-turn that brought her right-side katana up and across the base of the Snake Woman's first right arm.
The blade found the gap where the scales overlapped. The arm came off. It hit the floor with a wet, heavy sound. The stump sprayed ichor. Dark. Pulsing.
One.
The woman in white completed the pivot. Her back now to Jae-min's chest. Her shoulders against the space just below his collarbone. The way a follower leans into a lead. She held the position for a heartbeat.
Then Jae-min's right hand swung over her shoulder.
The Glocks gone.
Vanished into the void. Replaced by the two arnis sticks. The sinawali pattern. Left over right, right over left. The stainless steel cracked against the Snake Woman's left-side arms. Not cutting. Bludgeoning. The impacts bruising the tissue beneath the titanium. The sound of steel on metal. Sharp. Loud.
And in the same motion the woman in white dropped low.
A dip.
Her back arched against Jae-min's thigh. Her katanas sweeping the floor. She drove the left-hand katana up into the belly of the second left arm. The sheath split. The eighteen-inch blade came out inside the arm. She ripped sideways. Tendons parted. The ichor sprayed. The arm came off. It hit the floor. Wet. Heavy.
Two.
She came up out of the dip. Jae-min caught her momentum.
His left hand finally touching her, just above the elbow, the barest pressure, the way a lead catches a follower out of a dip. And redirected her.
She spun out. Away from him. Three meters of separation. The tango's opening-out. The moment where the pair breathes apart before snapping back together.
In those three meters she raised both Glocks. Drawn in the spin. Smooth. The same draw Jae-min had noticed days ago.
She fired. Four rounds.
At the joints where four more arms met the body. The 9mm hollow points found the gaps. The ichor sprayed. Four arms came off. They hit the floor in a row. Wet. Heavy. Wet. Heavy.
Three. Four. Five. Six.
She spun back. The snap-back of the tango. The return to closed hold. The pair reassembling. Jae-min was already there. His left hand at her back. Not touching. Hovering. The ghost of a touch. The way a lead guides without gripping.
His right hand had the arnis gone.
The Surgeon Scalpel in his palm. The rifle snapping up to his shoulder in the space her spin had opened.
He fired.
One round.
Through the scope. The bullet went through a gap in the neck scales. A gap the woman in white's katana had opened a second earlier. The cut still wet. The bullet entered the base of the Snake Woman's skull.
The Snake Woman convulsed. The skull cracked. The bullet tumbling through the brainstem. The ichor leaking from the entry wound. Dark. Thick.
And the two of them stood together. Close. The closed hold. His chest near her shoulder. His left hand at her back. Her katanas low. His rifle smoking. The Snake Woman on her knees in front of them. Twelve arms reduced to six on the floor. Skull pierced. Neck pierced. Gold eyes regenerating slow. Too slow. The gravity crushing the regeneration as fast as it could work.
It looked like a tango. The final pose. The dancers standing together at the end of the song.
Except the dance was not over. And the song was the sound of a Snake Woman screaming.
— • • • —
The woman in white.
He had touched her.
Not a lot. Not the way she had pictured, in the long months on the rooftops, in the cold, in the watching. His hand, above her elbow. The barest pressure. The ghost of a touch. A lead catching a follower out of a dip. A correction. A guidance. Nothing more.
But he had touched her.
And the tears came.
Behind the goggles. Behind the balaclava. Behind the silence. The tears came and she could not stop them and she could not wipe them because her hands were on the katanas and the katanas were on the Snake Woman and the dance was not over and she could not stop.
She had missed this.
Not the touching. Although she had missed the touching. Had ached for it. Had spent months on rooftops pressing her own hand to her own shoulder and pretending.
She had missed this.
The closeness.
The being near.
The moving with.
For five months she had been a shadow on a wall. A figure on a rooftop. A rumor in the snow. She had watched him eat. Watched him sleep. Watched him hold his wives. Watched him hold his twin. Watched him live. And she had not been near. Not near enough to feel the warmth of him. Not near enough to smell the soap on his skin. Not near enough to feel him.
And now she was dancing with him.
The tango. She did not know the word. She did not think in words. But she knew the movement. The close hold. The lead and the follow. The dip and the spin and the snap-back. She knew it the way her body knew the katana.
Without thinking. Without deciding. The body just moved. And his body moved with hers. And the space between them was inches.
Inches. After months of rooftops and snow and silence, the space between them was inches.
She could feel his heat.
Not the Black Hell Flame. That was Mark Jordan.
Jae-min's heat.
The body heat. The warmth of a man who was alive and was standing behind her and was close. The warmth she had not felt in months. The warmth that came off him in the minus-seventy air and reached her through the white coat and the balaclava and the goggles and reached her.
She was crying.
The tears ran down the inside of the goggles. The lenses fogged. The world went softer. The Snake Woman, the chamber, the arms on the floor, all of it went soft. And in the softness, in the blur, the only thing that was clear was him.
The shape of him.
Behind her. Beside her. Near her. The shape she had watched for five months from rooftops and was now close enough to touch.
She did not touch him.
Her hands were on the katanas. His hand had touched her. Above the elbow. The ghost. The lead's correction. And she had not reached back. Had not put her hand on his. Had not turned. Had not taken off the goggles and the balaclava and shown him the face of the woman who had been watching him for five months and had loved him for longer.
She had not done any of that. Because the war was on. And the Snake Woman was screaming. And the dance was not over.
But the tears were there. And the warmth was there. And the closeness was there. And for now, it was enough.
She swung the katana. At another arm. The blade found the gap. The ichor sprayed. The arm came off. It hit the floor.
Seven.
She was dancing. And crying. And fighting. And the man she loved was behind her, beside her, near her. Close, for the first time in months, close enough to feel. And she was not going to let the moment go.
She was going to fight. And dance. And cry. And the tears would stay behind the goggles and the love would stay behind the balaclava and the war would go on and she would be here. Close. Dancing. With him.
Enough. For now.
— • • • —
Day 177. 21:30 hours.
The cavity.
The chamber.
The Snake Woman was down. On her knees. Pinned by the Sun's gravity. Her arms, twelve then ten then eight then six then four then two, on the floor around her. Arms that had been attached and were now not. Severed by the dual. By the tango. By a captain and a woman in white who had danced and cut.
The Snake Woman was losing.
For the first time. A woman who had been winning for days. And was not. Pinned. Arms cut off. Skull pierced. Neck pierced. Regeneration slow. Too slow. The gravity crushing the regeneration as fast as it could work.
"You." The Snake Woman breathed, her voice not low. Not amused. A woman who was afraid. A woman who had not been afraid since the anti-tank round. And was. A woman who was losing. And knew.
"You are stronger." The Snake Woman breathed, her gold eyes on Jae-min. A woman who was seeing a captain who was standing. On a cracked leg. With a healing lung. And winning.
"We are stronger." Jae-min corrected, his dark eyes on the Snake Woman. The Surgeon Scalpel raised. A rifle aimed at the Snake Woman.
The woman in white stood beside him. The katanas bloody. The Glocks smoked. A woman who was beside the captain.
Ji-yoo held. The gravity. The anchor. A twin who was holding the Snake Woman. Pinned.
The three stood. Jae-min. Ji-yoo. The woman in white. A strike team that was winning. For the first time. A team that had been losing for days. And was not.
The Snake Woman was on her knees. Pinned. Arms severed. Skull pierced. Neck pierced. Regeneration slow. Losing.
The war was turning.
A war that had been the Snake Woman's. And was not. A war that was the strike team's.
The war was on. The Snake Woman was losing. The strike team was winning. The captain was back. The twin was the anchor. The woman in white was dancing. And crying. And enough.
The war was on. The turn was here. The war was on.