Yang Wei's POV
Pain seared through me, a white-hot storm in my chest where Xie Liang's bullet had torn flesh, and my shoulder throbbed, fresh blood soaking the cot from the strike team's last shot. My vision blurred, the safehouse a haze of smoke and blood, but I clung to consciousness, my hands shaking as I gripped Yanyan's arm—my daughter, fierce and unbroken, her face streaked with dirt and tears as she knelt beside me. Zhao's voice haunted the radio—"Send the second wave—finish it. I want her head"—and the distant roar of engines confirmed it: he wasn't done, and neither was I.
"Yang Wei!" Yanyan's voice cut through the fog, sharp and fierce, her hands pressing my chest, blood slick under her fingers. "Stay with me—you hear me? We're not losing you!"
