I cover their heads with my body, shaking, praying,pleadingto whatever gods are left.
Just let us make it.
Just let us survive.
I don’t care what it costs.
I don’t care what I have to give.
Just bring him back to me.
Bring us all home.
Traz fights like he’s already dead.
Like nothing matters except carving a path for us out of this slaughter.
He moves brutal and fast, using every piece of cover, every broken crate, every inch of shadow.
He grits his teeth, fires two shots into the nearest thug, then rams his shoulder into another, sending him flying into a wall.
He’s bleeding.
I see it.
A line of red slicing down his side where a blaster grazed him.
But he doesn’t slow.
Doesn’t even flinch.
He’s not fighting for himself.
He’s fighting for us.
For me.
For our babies.
And gods, it makes me want to sob and scream and laugh all at once.
Because no one’s ever fought for me like this.
No one’s everstayed.
Not until him.
Not until now.
Another thug charges, wild and sloppy.
Traz sidesteps him, grabs his arm, snaps it clean at the elbow with a sick crack, and throws him face-first into the ground.
The others hesitate.
Just for a second.
Long enough to buy us a breath.
