Not ours.
Definitely not ours.
Boots hit the ground.
Fast.
Organized.
This isn’t chaos.
This is planned.
I grab the medical kit beside me, ripping it open.
Assess.
Prioritize.
Move.
A young woman across from me is bleeding from her arm.
Through and through.
“Press here,” I tell her, guiding her hand. “Hard. Don’t stop.”
Her fingers tremble.
I lock eyes with her.
“Don’t stop,” I repeat.
She nods.
Barely.
But it’s enough.
The door rips open.
Light floods in—
Then hands.
Rough.
Unforgiving.
Weapons trained.
“Out. Now.”
I don’t move immediately.
Not because I’m scared.
Because I’m calculating.
