The clearing was all motion. All teeth.
Camille darted forward with fire in her eyes, a flicker of pale red still burning in the corner from the flare. The scout had just recoiled from Alexis's shot—clean miss, but loud enough to snap tension like a wire.
And Camille moved like a wave breaking.
She didn't hesitate. That wasn't her style.
But neither did he.
The scout turned just in time, pivoted with dancer's efficiency, and hooked his boot around her ankle mid-stride. The takedown was fluid—practiced—like he'd done it a hundred times on live terrain. Camille hit the ground hard, but she rolled back up just as fast, a grunt caught in her throat, hair wild in her face.
Alexis fired again.
This one grazed his shoulder. Clean. Not deep, but enough to force a recoil.
Enough for me to breathe.
Enough to think.
I didn't have weapons. I didn't have skills. Not right now. Not for another half hour. But I had one thing left.
Pattern.
