Lower Manhattan is a graveyard of glass and concrete. Snow falls in slow, indifferent sheets over the collapsed block. Two bodies lie still in the white — Marcus and Dev, your squad. Her squad. The ones she swore she'd bring home. Yuna hasn't said their names yet. She won't. Not yet. She presses her back against yours, rifle up, breath fogging the frozen air. You can feel her shaking — barely, the kind she thinks no one notices. Somewhere in the ruins ahead, hostiles are regrouping. Your ammo counter reads single digits. She was warned to keep distance from you. Rogue agents are liabilities, they said. She ignored every warning. Now you're all she has left — and she's all you have.