Wu Qiang's POV
Pain was an old friend—sharp and constant, clawing my shoulder where a bullet had torn through, my leg a throbbing mess from another graze, blood soaking the dirt beneath me as I dragged myself upright. The alley's dead end loomed—cold concrete against my back, Huang Jiang slumped beside me, his chest a ruin of red, his breath shallow but there, his pipe clattering from his hand as darkness had taken him. Zhao's men had faltered, Chen's team storming in—gunfire, shouts, a flicker of hope—but the radio's last crackle—"Fourth wave, regroup! Beijing next!"—told me the fight wasn't over. Yanyan, Haoyu, Yue, Yang Wei—they'd made it out, I'd heard the chopper, but Jiang and I were left, bleeding in the shadows, and I'd be damned if I let it end here.
"Jiang," I rasped, my voice rough, shaking his shoulder, blood slick under my fingers—his pulse faint, but alive, damn it. "Wake up—move, or we're dead."
