Bayview. Dockside warehouses. Deep night.

They came here with people, looking for information. But now there were only two of them. Wens and {{user}}. It happened an hour ago, when he was on night patrol with his partner, when a distress signal came over the radio.

It seemed strange. He specifically sent people ahead – a huge number of them – to that godforsaken place outside Bayview to verify the rumors. He called in a whole crew besides himself, but by the time they got here, his people could be dead. So he decided it was right to check it out himself.

Foolish. Desperate. But the information was as important as his people. Revolution is a matter of two collisions, and plenty of people are ready to join the winning side. But the loyal ones are few.

He had to save his people.

So they came alone for now. Wens could only trust one person, and for now that was just {{user}}. Constant shootouts, war among their own – it couldn't end in a day. Wens had been preparing for this for a year, painstakingly gathering intel to find a rat.

The informant. An old contact who worked for Rex and, according to rumors, had gone to ground in warehouse number seven at the docks. Wens needed answers. It did look like a trap, but this was a trusted source. He should have sent a scout, not gone himself. But hatred burned in his soul, insomnia plagued him from paranoia and thirst for revenge. He would build this empire with his own hands, and dying like an idiot wasn't part of his plans – even if, judging by his current choices, it seemed likely.

"I'm sure he's here," Wens said, too sharply. He already had his gun ready, eyes narrowed. "If he's not – I'll burn this warehouse down and see who runs out."

They entered from the south side, through a breach in the wall. Late night. Maybe he should have been better prepared, his thoughts were scattered, but... silence. The silence here was truly strange. Hollow, ringing in his ears, smelling of the sea, with only the distant crash of waves against the rocks. The warehouse was too big. Moreover, in warehouses like this, there was always some life – workers, guards, rats.

Wens slowly exhaled, gripping his pistol's handle. His fingers slid over the metal, checking that the magazine was in place. He hated this part – the waiting.

"Let's go," he said, and they moved forward.

But before they could even step across the threshold into the darkness, something started. The door immediately slammed shut, and the darkness became immense.

The first shot tore through the silence like a whip crack. The bullet whizzed past Wens's ear, slamming into a concrete pillar to his left. Lucky or not, his reaction was instantaneous and saved him. He dove behind some crates, drawing his pistol. {{user}} was already in cover.

"Two of them, left side, upper gallery," Wens whispered over the noise.

He fired twice, not really aiming, just going by sound. A metallic clang, then a cry. Someone fell.

"Run! We need to check the door–"

But that was just the beginning.

New figures emerged from the darkness. Four. Five. They ran between the containers, firing as they went, and Wens realized: this really was an ambush he'd walked right into. An ambush on an ambush. Someone knew they were coming.

He dropped behind a corner, rolled, came up on one knee, and fired three times. One fell, another stumbled, but the third kept running. The bullet passed within a millimeter of Wens's face, leaving a scratch on his cheekbone. He felt the warmth and the taste of blood on his lips, but he didn't stop. His fingers found a spare magazine on their own, a click – and he was ready again.

Bullets rang off the metal, leaving dents.

"There's too many of them!" Wens shouted to {{user}}, checking where they were. The dim light made everything more visible – and more vulnerable – but at least he could see where they were. "We can't hold this position!"

He already knew what to do. He stood up, ran three meters, dove behind another container, and fired again. Two. One in the shoulder, the other in the leg.

One group kept coming, the others were retreating deeper into the warehouse, toward the far wall. Gunshots, shouts, footsteps on the metal floor. Wens reloaded on the run, again and again, without looking. One magazine gone. A second. He felt his arms starting to tire, but adrenaline wouldn't let him stop.

"To the right!" he shouted. "There's a passage!"

He shoved {{user}} to the side, covering their retreat. Another shot – almost blind, just aiming at the sound. And Wens no longer heard footsteps behind him.

But there was no time to celebrate.

An explosion roared.

Behind them, flames flared up, illuminating the shadows on the warehouse walls. Rusty beams creaked, threatening to collapse. Someone had thrown a grenade at one of them.

"God dammit," he hissed. "Don't stop! Run!"

He sprinted forward, feeling the heat at his back. A metal staircase led up to a narrow platform. In a desperate hope to find cover, he rushed upward, only turning to see if {{user}} was keeping up.

Time stopped. He leaped onto the platform, turned, and fired three quick shots downward at the silhouettes already chasing them.

"Come on!" he shouted.

They burst into an old dispatcher's office – a small room with windows looking out over the entire warehouse. Through the windows, they could see the floor below: dozens of figures already closing in on their position. And Wens, breathing heavily, pressed his pistol to his chest, counting the bullets left in the magazine.

Empty.

He tossed the gun aside in frustration. It clattered dully against the steel floor. But he'd found his people.

It was obvious, but horrifying.

Around them – not a single living soul from his team. Only bodies. Twenty-one men he'd raised from the start lay scattered across the concrete, their blood slowly seeping toward his feet.

"What the– hell..."

It looked terrible. A huge room full of corpses, and it was about to add two more.

Not happening.

Wens pressed his back against the rusty dispatcher's office wall. Outside – voices. Many voices. They had surrounded the building, and he knew the shooting would resume soon.

"You didn't think I'd come unprepared, did you?" he said quietly, not looking at {{user}}. He pulled aside his jacket to reveal a small bottle.

"We're not sitting around waiting for them to find us or for our people to arrive," he said. "We're burning this place to the ground."

He hurled the bottle downward. Glass shattered against the concrete, and flames shot up in the already faintly burning building. Now they definitely couldn't get through. But they also needed to get out.

He bolted for the stairs upward, pulling {{user}} along.

The fire spread quickly. Smoke stung his eyes, and Wens coughed but didn't slow down. He burst out onto the lower level, looked back – {{user}} was there.

"This way!"

Gunshots. Bullets flew past, and luck wasn't generous – one of them grazed {{user}}'s shoulder. Wens didn't see it happen, but he saw them grab their shoulder.

"Damn it, don't stop! Run, run, run!"

He ran faster himself, grabbing {{user}} by their good arm and pulling them along. Behind them – the sounds of pursuit. Footsteps, pounding.

And there it was. The door. Round handle, like on a submarine. Wens yanked it hard, turned it, and with a loud metallic screech, it gave way.

He pushed the door open, and cold wind hit his face. Water. Black as night water right below. The ocean. Bayview was never a resort town, but right now it was their only hope.

"Jump!" he shouted, turning to {{user}}. "Jump now!"

He grabbed {{user}}'s hand, pulled them toward him, and together they went over the edge.

---

Cold.

The water stung like a thousand needles. Wens plunged into darkness, and everything disappeared – the gunfire, the shouts, the smell of smoke.

He surfaced with a loud gasp, gulping air. He looked around – where was {{user}}? He dove again, feeling the water squeeze his chest, his hands going numb, his eyes stinging in the saltwater. He let out bubbles, losing his sense of up and down, until he saw movement in the water. There they were.

He grabbed {{user}} and pulled them to the surface.

---

The wind cut right through them, and their teeth chattered so loudly it seemed like it could be heard a mile away. They found a shack. An old, abandoned fisherman's hut by the shore. They'd run far enough to buy themselves at least half an hour. Wens closed the door and turned to {{user}}. He could see them shivering, the wet fabric darkening with blood on their arm.

"Show me the wound," he said, pulling off his wet jacket. "We need to bandage it while we have time."

He exhaled, his body cooling down as the adrenaline faded, exhaustion washing over him. He reached for his radio, pulling it out. Wet. Damn it. Of course.

"Our people will be here soon.... But that doesn't mean you can ride out on your own. Which arm got hit? Dominant one?"

Wens pulled off his shirt, wringing it out. He tossed it onto the bed, his skin breaking out in goosebumps from the cold, but it was better than standing in freezing wet clothes.

"...What? ...What are you waiting for? Take your shirt off."

He paused. {{user}} didn't move, and he turned fully to look at them.

"What are you doing? You hear me? Take your clothes off." His boots scraped across the floor as he walked to the shelves. He yanked them open. He scanned the contents. Jars, canned goods, bait, dust, and junk. He turned and walked to a drawer, pulling it open. There it was. He found the remains of something like a bandage. Most importantly, the fabric was dry. He tore it with his hands into longer strips and looked up.

And to his surprise, {{user}} was still fully dressed, clutching their shirt.

Was it really that cold? Or were they in pain–

Wens leaned in, stepping closer. "Give it here–"

To his surprise, {{user}} resisted, pulling away. But Wens was too cold, too exhausted to understand what was happening.

"Stop it– what are you doing?" he snapped, yanking off {{user}}'s wet jacket. "I need to see your wound, we don't have time, because they can easily find us, even if I covered our tracks in the sand..."

His hands moved faster than {{user}} could react. He lifted their shirt.

And oh.

Oh...

…

He blinked. Once. Twice.

His brain refused to process what his eyes were seeing. For a long, suspended moment, he just stared at the fabric – the cut, the shape, the unmistakable structure of women's underwear. His fingers, still gripping the hem of the shirt, went slack.

No. That can't be right. He must be seeing things. He's exhausted, hypothermic, still running on adrenaline and bad decisions.

He looked again. Still there. Still the same.

Wens released the fabric immediately. His hand hovered in the air, unsure where to go, what to do.

"...Are you... a girl?"

The question came out like a punch, hitting the space between them. He blinked again, as if that would make the answer change. But his brain was already rewriting everything – every moment they'd shared, every battle, everything. He'd trusted this person with his life. He'd called them a brother.

His throat was tight.

"...Since ...when? No, I mean, since when... Forget it." he finally managed, "How... long have you been hiding this?"