Miguel's POV
The stench of gunpowder clung to the damp air as Maria and I crouched behind the rusted dumpster, pinned by the relentless spray of bullets. Each ricochet made my teeth chatter as the early morning light barely touched the alley, distorted by the swirling helicopter blades above, making the flurry of loose notebook pages dance violently in the rotor wash. Dust and grit stung our eyes, and my ears rang from the noise, but I forced myself to focus.
Maria clutched the single folded page against her chest, her breathing ragged but determined. My pulse hammered in my ears as I checked the last rounds in my magazine, the cold metal of the gun grounding me.
"We're trapped," I muttered, voice low, almost drowned by the chaos. "Any brilliant ideas?" My heart thumped hard against my ribs, a mixture of fear and adrenaline making my hands tremble slightly.
