The shotgun roared, the blast a thunderclap of flame and metal.
Silk Siren's eyes squeezed shut, her entire body flinching, braced for the searing pain that never came.
Instead—a sudden jerk.
A hand, rubbery and pale, shot across the distance, stretched like a slingshot, and yanked her sideways. The blast missed by inches, peppering the ground with buckshot and shrapnel.
She hit the dirt, breath knocked from her lungs, and looked up in disbelief.
Harris stood between her and the robot, his stretched arm snapping back to its normal length. His gray mask was streaked with soot and grime, but his eyes—sharp, focused, calculating—locked onto hers with the weight of command.
"You're welcome," he said, voice clipped, then turned to the figure beside him. "Now I leave it to you, Flame-Lantern. You got this."
Beside him, Rhea stood still as stone, her hands curled into fists, the flicker of fire dancing across her knuckles like a heartbeat.
