Carina’s voice wavered as she finished her story, her words trailing into a heavy silence.

Her eyes held a hollow, faraway look, as if she was seeing shadows that no longer haunted the world around her, but clung deeply within her.

"And that was my life."

Ezra’s chest felt tight, the weight of her words settling into a place he didn’t know existed.

He held his breath, almost afraid to release it, as if the stillness was something fragile that he didn’t want to shatter.

“I’m sorry.”

He whispered, his voice barely audible, as if speaking louder would somehow deepen her wounds.

Carina’s lips tugged into a faint, almost ironic smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

"It doesn’t matter.” She said quietly.

“In the end, this world… it only sees what it wants.”

Her gaze was distant, as if she’d already moved past the words, the memories, the pain she’d shared.

Ezra looked down.

“If I were in your shoes… I’d probably… I don't know.”

He murmured, barely realizing he’d spoken the thought aloud.

Carina’s head tilted slightly, and for a moment, her eyes softened, but her voice remained firm.

“In real life those motherfuckers are probably dead already.”

She replied, the edge in her tone leaving no room for argument.

“There's nothing we can do about it now.”

With a sudden decisiveness, she stood, the movement sharp.

She didn’t look back at him, her focus shifting as she reached for her pistol.

She checked the ammunition, the clicks filling the silence as she prepared for the path ahead.

The darkness in her eyes had changed, replaced by a hardened resolve.

Ezra, feeling the moment slipping from him, spoke up, a hint of wonder in his voice.

“But… how is your forearm still clean?”

The question slipped out almost involuntarily.

Carina stopped, giving him a sidelong glance, her lips twisting slightly.

“Moron. Everyone’s appearance is polished when they enter this place.”

“Oh…”

Ezra’s face flushed, and he looked down, feeling his own naivety as sharply as a blade.

He traced a line in the dirt with his shoe, struggling to find something more to say, something that wouldn’t sound foolish.

Carina, however, was already moving again.

She pulled the slide of her pistol back, the quiet click echoing through the cave.

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In the stillness, her voice was low but unshakable.

“Just like how I was protected initially, I will protect you.”

Ezra’s gaze lingered on her, seeing the strength in her stance, the weight she carried without breaking.

He swallowed, knowing that no words could capture the awe, the sorrow, and the gratitude he felt in that moment. Instead, he just nodded, following her lead, vowing silently to be worthy of the protection she offered.

***

The fluorescent lights’ static electricity buzzed overhead as Alduin and Farrel trudged through the concrete tunnel.

Their boots scuffed against the dusty floor, echoing off the narrow, claustrophobic walls.

Blood had dried into stiff patches on their skin, but the wounds beneath were smooth—they had healed, leaving only the jagged tears in their clothes as evidence of the battle.

Farrel slowed his pace, his fingers curling around the cold grip of his USP.

The metal felt heavy.

Click.

He pulled the slide and let the slide go back to its place. It was still smooth.

A glint of brass in the chamber reassured him—more than half a magazine.

Not much, but enough for now. He exhaled through his nose, the air warm against the stagnant chill of the tunnel, and clicked the safety on before slipping the pistol back into his blazer.

Beside him, Alduin examined Abyan’s M4.

The weapon felt alien in his hands, its weight unbalanced without a full magazine. He pulled the charging handle back, the dry metallic rasp unnervingly loud in the silence.

Empty.

Alduin’s jaw tightened. His fingers brushed his pocket, finding the hard edge of the last magazine.

He thumbed the magazine on the rifle free and slid the new one into the magwell, his movements careful, almost reverent.

The magazine could fit in somehow, though the round wasn't designed to be chambered in this gun.

The single remaining 7.62x51mm round rattled faintly inside the magazine as he seated it with a soft click.

He paused for a moment, hand resting on the charging handle, then released it with a loud snap.

The echo carried down the tunnel like a warning.

Ahead, the path to the arsenal stretched into darkness, their breaths mingling with the cold, stale air.

“Hold on. Let’s take ten.”

Alduin said, his voice cutting through the silence, the low echo bouncing off the tunnel walls.

Farrel nodded silently, his gaze fixed on the ground, shadows dancing across his downturned face.

Both leaned against the cold, damp concrete wall, the chill seeping through their battered clothes.

Alduin exhaled slowly, a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, and reached into his vest.

He worked quickly, pulling out everything his fingers brushed against—cold steel needles, slim medical scissors with needle-sharp tips, a tube of super glue that felt oddly out of place, and a few odds and ends.

His hand closed around the last magazine that was in the gun, and he drew it out carefully, then popping the last ammunition out.

Quickly, he pinched the bullet between his fingers and twisted.

The casing resisted briefly before the projectile separated with a faint metallic scrape.

He placed the empty casing on the floor gingerly, ensuring the powder inside remained intact.

His eyes dropped to the shredded cords dangling from his tactical vest.

Grimacing, he selected one and tugged at it, steady and deliberate.

The cord resisted, snagging briefly before sliding free. He coaxed it out slowly, inch by inch, the rough material catching against his gloves.

Finally, with a soft snap, the strand broke loose, coiling itself into a tight spiral like a spring.

Alduin laid the cord flat on the ground, smoothing it with his hands to extend its length.

The dampness of the tunnel clung to it, but when he measured it by sight, it spanned nearly three meters. He nodded, satisfied.

The steel needle felt cold and sharp against his fingers as he angled it toward the base of the projectile.

With a twist and press, he punched a small hole at the bottom.

The faint crunch of metal giving way echoed in his ears, but he didn’t flinch.

Next, he picked up the empty casing and carefully used the medical scissors to pry out the primer. The tiny piece of metal came loose with a soft plink, rolling onto the concrete.

Alduin worked quickly now. He dabbed a bead of super glue onto the end of the cord, the sharp chemical scent briefly filling the air.

Pressing the cord to the small hole in the projectile, he held it firm, his hands steady despite the situation.

When the glue dried, he threaded the cord down the length of the casing, guiding it through with painstaking care.

A small spill of black powder escaped as he drew the cord taut.

“Fucking hell…”

Alduin muttered under his breath, brushing the granules away with his palm.

Finally, he pressed the projectile back into the casing with a soft click, locking it securely in place. His fingers lingered for a moment before he set the device aside, his gaze flicking to Farrel.

“An idiot tried to pull this off back when I was in the Rangers,”

Farrel didn’t respond, but his eyes narrowed, watching every movement.

Alduin crouched, the cold concrete pressing against his knees as he set the M4 across his lap.

His hands moved as if with sleight of hand, dismantling the weapon piece by piece.

The clink of metal components echoed softly as he pulled the receiver apart, exposing the firing chamber.

Reaching for the cord hanging from the improvised round, Alduin glued its end to the back of the chamber, pressing it firmly against the cold steel.

The acrid scent of the adhesive stung his nose, but he ignored it, ensuring the bond held fast.

The round hung loosely for a moment, swaying slightly as he adjusted its position. With steady hands, he lowered the firing pin, angling it to strike the casing’s body instead of the primer.

The sharp scrape of metal on metal accompanied the adjustment.

Alduin reached for the spilled gunpowder, carefully pinching it between his fingers. The fine grains stuck stubbornly to his gloves as he dusted the firing pin with a thin, even coat.

Satisfied, he turned his attention to the gas piston.

With a quiet grunt, he removed it entirely, the piece coming free with a smooth slide.

Without the piston, the chamber door wouldn't open, and the casing wouldn’t auto-eject—an intentional choice to ensure the setup remained intact after firing.

Finally, he slid the modified round into the firing chamber, its snug fit accompanied by a muted click. Alduin exhaled slowly as he reassembled the M4, the components locking back into place with sharp, deliberate snaps.

He flipped the safety to ON, the lever clicking softly, and set the rifle down beside him.

He glanced at Farrel, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at his lips.

“I hope he was right.”