The floor creaked under my boots.
Chunks of plaster and twisted rebar choked the hallway ahead, forcing every step into a slow, ugly shuffle. I kept the Type-9K close against my chest, finger resting light but ready along the guard, eyes cutting side to side through the broken light.
Behind me, Shen Yifei moved too close.
Her boots scraped a little too loud across the grit, breathing was short and ragged.
I slowed half a step without looking back. Let her catch up.
The overhead fluorescents flickered every few seconds, throwing the hall into a pulsing stutter of shadows. Each flash painted new shapes across the wreckage — broken chairs, snapped tables, a cracked whiteboard drooping from the wall like a broken neck.
The air tasted thick — burnt plastic, dust, and rot. It coated my mouth like ash.
Somewhere ahead, deeper inside the North Block, I heard it:
Gunfire. Muffled. Panicked.
Mixed in with shouting, the scraping drag of furniture against tile.
Humans.
