The handle's cold under my bloody fingers.
I turn it.
Lead starts flying before I clear the threshold. Rounds snap past my head, my chest, my legs—each one precise. Calculated.
But the room's dark, and I'm already moving.
Rolling.
Changing position.
Never still.
Never where he expects.
Another burst of fire tracks my movement, but I'm counting rounds now. Marking Granger's position by his muzzle flash.
Six shots. Standard mag holds fifteen.
Nine left.
I keep moving as more rounds punch through the darkness. Some find flesh—grazing my shoulder, my ribs, my thigh. But nothing vital.
Nothing that stops me.
Eight shots left. Seven. Six.
My eyes adjust slowly to the darkness. I can make out shapes now—storage crates, old equipment, support beams.
And somewhere in those shadows, a light switch.
Five shots. Four.
The next burst comes closer—too close. Pain blazes across my bicep as a round tears through muscle.
But I hear something else too.
Granger's starting to breathe harder.
Three shots. Two.
My hand finds the switch.
One.
Light floods the room.
Click.
Empty mag.
I see Granger's shadow and launch forward, covering the distance in two strides. My boot connects with his weapon, sending it spinning away.
Then it's just us.
No guns.
No distance.
