Wu Haoyu's POV
The dawn broke gray and cold over Ningbo's shore, the chopper's blades still as Zhao's third wave charged—trucks roaring from the east, boats disgorging men from the water, twenty, thirty, maybe more, rifles gleaming in the faint light. My knife felt heavy in my hand, slick with blood from the last fight, my ribs aching where the strike team had cracked them, but I stood firm beside Yanyan, her rifle up, her eyes blazing with a fire that kept me going. Yang Wei lay behind us, blood pooling under the medic's hands, Yue and Huang Jiang shielding him, while Grandpa Wu gripped a scavenged pistol, his leg a mess but his jaw set. Chen's five men fired from the chopper's cover, their shots sharp but thin against the storm coming for us.
"Haoyu!" Yanyan shouted, her voice cutting through the gunfire, fierce and steady as she dropped a soldier with a clean shot, blood spraying as he fell. "They're flanking—east side!"
