Huang Yanyan's POV
The med bay smelled like blood and rust, a metallic tang that clung to my nose and wouldn't let go. I stood over the steel table where Yang Wei—my dad, still a word that felt like a punch to the gut—lay half-dead, his chest rising shallow under the surgeon's hands. Around me, the family was a mess: Haoyu's shirt soaked red from a gash on his arm, Wu Qiang barking orders with a limp, Huang Jiang pacing like a caged tiger, and Yue, my mom, clutching Yang Wei's hand like she could will him back to life. Me? I was pissed. Pissed at Zhao, pissed at this endless war, pissed that every time I thought we'd won, another wave of these bastards came crashing in.
