Huang Yanyan's POV
The skiff rocked hard on the waves, water leaking through the bullet-riddled hull, my hands slick with Yang Wei's blood as I pressed them to his chest, his pulse faint beneath my fingers—alive, but slipping, his promise to me a fragile thread. Haoyu wrestled the engine, his face streaked with blood and grime, the shore a fading blur as Ningbo's docks burned behind us, Gramps and Grandpa Wu's last stand echoing in my ears—Gramps down, shot, Wu Qiang's roar swallowed by gunfire. Chen's team had stormed in, a flicker of hope, but Zhao's voice on the radio—"Fourth wave, now. Take the island, kill them all"—cut deeper than any bullet. We were running, bleeding, and I'd never felt so damn helpless.
"Yanyan!" Mom's voice broke through, raw and trembling, her hands beside mine, pressing gauze to Yang Wei's shoulder, blood soaking through as she sobbed, her face pale but her eyes fierce. "He's fading—we need land, now!"
