Huang Jiang's POV:
The docks stretched before us, a jagged line of shadows and blood under Ningbo's gray dawn, the air thick with gunpowder and the screams of the dying. My shoulder burned where a bullet had grazed it, my leg throbbed from another near miss, but I gripped the metal pipe I'd scavenged, my hands shaking with exhaustion and rage as I ran beside Yue, her frail frame steadying Yang Wei. Chen's gunfire flickered ahead—faint, faltering—his last three men pinned near a crumbling pier, Zhao's third wave closing in from every damn side—trucks from the west, boats from the water, men swarming like locusts, rifles gleaming. We'd fought through the warehouse, Haoyu and Yanyan cutting a path, Wu Qiang limping behind, but it wasn't enough—not against this.
"Dad!" Yue's voice broke through, raw and urgent, her hands slipping in Yang Wei's blood as we stumbled forward, his head lolling, his chest barely rising. "He's fading—we need Chen!"
