Unlike Ren—who held back, managing his repulsor to avoid lethal force—Fujisawa stepped out from behind a scorched metal box, his eyes stripped of hesitation. The moment one of his former comrades emerged from behind the barricade, Fujisawa's weapon was already raised and fired. One shot. Directly to the head. The body dropped without a sound. No warning, no mercy.
The ex-comrade collapsed onto the dusty ground, blood seeping into the dry sand. Fujisawa didn't flinch. No time for regrets. No room for doubts. Here, nostalgia was a burden—and even the smallest hesitation could make a bullet fly before the mind even reacted.
He moved fast, hugging the scorched barricade wall. In his grip was a modified assault rifle, its barrel still warm. His footfalls were silent, precise—as if he were a seasoned wolf familiar with every inch of this terrain. Among the twisted container wreckage, he spotted two soldiers speaking into a radio.
"West sector is—"
Brrt.
