Ming sank into the worn embrace of the sofa, her posture loose and unguarded. The old study in the manor had been repurposed into a makeshift home theater. Shelves that once held dusty tomes now overlooked a space cleared of its heavy furniture, replaced by mismatched sofas and mattresses sprawled across the floor. The room had the quiet, lived-in feeling of a secret hideout.

  Chungking Express flickered on the screen, the soft glow casting faint shadows across the half-filled room. Most of the dialogue was in Cantonese—a language Ming had absorbed as a child, its rhythms and tones stitched into her memory. Though some Mandarin slipped in now and then, the Cantonese carried the film, rich and unrelenting. It had been a long time since she’d watched a movie, let alone one in Chinese, and the familiarity of the language felt oddly comforting, like a warm scarf on a cool night.

  The room wasn’t as lively as it had been in the early weeks of the theater’s debut. Back then, it had been packed—buzzing with curiosity and chatter, people claiming spots on the sofas or making nests on the floor. Now, the initial excitement had faded. The "hype," as people called it, had passed, and the late-night showings rarely drew more than a handful of dedicated souls. Though Oksjo had about 400 movies ihn its repertory. Mostly on multiple USB sticks but also allot of DVD’s.

  Still, for Ming, the half-empty room made the experience feel more personal, almost like the film was playing just for her. That is, until the two girls on her left started talking. Their voices cut through the soft ambiance of the movie, louder than they realized—or perhaps louder than they cared. Ming could hear everything they said, every trivial detail. Something about some other girl and a love triangle involving the girl, the tall blonde ruining her night, and someone in the Home Guard named Peter.

  The dialogue on screen shifted—Ming caught the cadence of an actress speaking, her voice tinged with urgency. It sounded important, maybe even pivotal to the story. But she couldn’t make out the words. The chatter next to her drowned it out, and frustration boiled up in her chest.

  “Sssssh,” Ming hissed sharply, her tone cutting through the room like a thrown dart.

  The girls froze for a moment, but instead of feeling embarrassed or apologetic, one of them turned toward her, laughing mockingly.

  “What?” the girl said, her voice dripping with insincerity, the laughter in her tone enough to make Ming’s blood simmer.

  Before Ming could respond, a guy in the front row saved her the trouble.

  “Katherine, please shut up,” he barked, his voice laced with irritation that mirrored Ming’s own.

  Ming felt a ripple of relief, reassured she wasn’t the only one irritated by their behavior. The rest of the room stirred faintly with approval, the unspoken solidarity of movie-goers who just wanted to watch in peace.

  “What?” the girl laughed again, her tone even sharper now. She glanced at Ming, her expression shifting from mockery to something uglier. “Why don’t you just sit there quietly, huh? Not like anyone can understand you anyway.”

  Ming ran her fingers over the bruise on her upper left cheek, the tender skin still a dull shade of purple. It was a reminder of two nights ago—a fight that had left her with this mark but had sent the girl who insulted her to the infirmary. Ming had been lucky. The other girl wasn’t. She’d walked away with stitches on her eyebrow, a missing front tooth, and the grim realization that the tooth couldn’t be replaced. Ming wasn’t proud of it—at least, not entirely—but she didn’t regret it either.

  She hadn’t even bothered changing for tonight’s outing. Her plate carrier sat snugly over her North Face rain jacket, practical but far from tactical. Amir, on the other hand, was kitted out in custom combat pants with integral kneepads, every piece of gear meticulously chosen for function. Ming just had her black jeans, with her Glock holstered on her belt. She’d never cared much about appearances, as long as she could move and fight if she had to.

  The fallout from the fight had taken up most of Sven’s day yesterday. He’d been forced to deliberate with half the settlement, trying to find what he called a “solution and reconciliation” for the altercation. In the end, Ming was punished—not with confinement or loss of privileges, but by being sent on an errand. She was to take someone else’s place at a trade exchange between Oksj? and a nearby settlement desperate for antibiotics.

  Sven probably thought it was a fitting penalty, a way to teach her responsibility or humility. But Ming secretly didn’t mind the outing. It was an escape, a chance to step away from the watchful eyes of the settlement and the suffocating politics of their little community. She might not have asked for this task, but she wasn’t about to complain about it either.

  She didn’t mind being away from Nikolaj for a while either. They both knew they loved each other, but a little space—just a day—might do them some good especially after the huge fight from yesterday. As the faint rumble of ATVs reached her ears, Ming tugged her black neck gaiter up over her nose, hoping it would shield her from the dust that trailed behind the vehicles. Her baseball cap offered some protection for her hair, though she caught herself brushing away stray strands out of habit. Her hand lingered on the MP5 slung across her chest—a battered relic from the Swedish police that had somehow ended up in her possession. She checked it again, more out of routine than necessity. It was as ready as it could be.

  The sound of engines grew louder. Amir and Peter stepped out of the abandoned gas station where they’d been waiting. They were in Oksj? territory, on a stretch of road patrolled daily by the settlement’s teams. Jonathan, Peter, Nikolaj and another vehicle team she couldn’t quite name had likely driven this route just this morning. The two teams alternated shifts, switching daily to keep things fresh.

  Even with familiar terrain and routine patrols, no one let their guard down. Out here, beyond the settlement walls, the air carried a different kind of weight—thinner, sharper. There wasn’t any immediate reason to worry, not today, but old instincts were hard to shake. They all had their "game faces" on, the unspoken acknowledgment that anything could happen if you weren’t careful.

  The ATVs came into view, kicking up a cloud of dust that hung in the air like a warning. Ming adjusted her grip on her weapon. Whatever was coming next, she was ready for it.

  The men stopped infront of the gas station. Amir seemed to not recognize them. Ming noticed how he looked at them. The atv’s were heavy duty vehicles. Able to carry two men and some equipment on the back.

  On the hood of the Cherokee they’d driven in, Amir set down the bag carrying the antibiotics. Across from him, a man named Ludvig began explaining that the usual messengers were needed elsewhere, his tone calm but detached as he counted the vials.

  Amir’s gaze drifted from Ludvig to Ming on the opposite side of the car, catching her eye. She wore the same curious look he felt bubbling inside him. Ming gave a subtle shake of her head to the left—a silent cue. Amir didn’t say a word, simply followed her a few meters away, the crunch of gravel underfoot muffled by the hum of the idling ATVs.

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  “Five backpacks on the ATVs,” Ming said quietly, glancing toward the vehicles. “But only three guys.” Her fingers brushed the body of her MP5 as she casually ensured the weapon was chambered, the metallic click faint but sharp in the still air.

  Amir’s brow furrowed, but his voice was steady when he called out, “Everything good?” His question was directed at Ludvig, who had just finished closing the satchel with a satisfied nod.

  Ming, meanwhile, kept up her pretense of disinterest. She casually examined her nails, feigning a sudden fascination with her maroon finger polish. But her eyes flicked to one of the men they were trading with, catching his uneasy glance in her direction. He was watching her—closely, warily.

  Her false indifference seemed to do its job, soothing his nerves just enough. But the tension in the air was palpable, the unspoken unease hanging like a shadow over the transaction.

  I’ll go grab the goods!” Ludvig said, his tone cheerful, clearly satisfied with the antibiotics.

  “Hey, can you ask Christian if he’ll come for the next trade?” Amir said, his voice casual, though his hand remained firmly on the grip of his rifle. “Guy still owes me cigars.”

  Ludvig laughed lightly and gave a quick nod. “Yeah, sure, mate,” he replied, already turning on his heel to head toward the ATVs.

  Ming kept her gaze steady, her fingers brushing the strap of her MP5 as Ludvig walked away. But one of Ludvig’s companions—a tall man in a blue Adidas jacket and camouflage pants—lingered. His eyes narrowed slightly, his face betraying a flicker of realization. He’d caught on.

  Christian didn’t exist, and Amir’s gamble hadn’t worked on all of them. The tall man’s expression shifted just enough to signal his unease, his suspicion tightening the air between the two groups.

  Ming glanced at Amir, the faintest shift of her posture signaling that she’d seen it too. Whatever trust they’d hoped to buy with small talk was unraveling fast.

  The road stretched alongside the woods, where the small gas station stood, its shadow barely visible in the growing twilight. On the other side, a grassy hill sloped sharply down into a valley. If anything happened, they were stuck—caught between a hammer and an anvil.

  Ludvig pretended to rummage through one of the bags strapped to the ATV, but the air grew thick with tension. Amir, Ming, and Peter stood in a loose line, facing two of Ludvig’s friends, each side sizing the other up.

  Then it came. A faint crack from the hill to their left.

  Though quiet, it felt as deafening as an explosion. Everyone froze, the sound putting every nerve on edge. Ming spun instinctively toward the woods, her MP5 snapping into position. The first shot rang out, but she couldn’t tell who fired it.

  Her eyes locked on a figure about thirty meters away, moving fast to flank them. A rifle lifted—aimed directly at Amir.

  Gunfire erupted on the road behind her, sharp and chaotic, but she couldn’t turn back to look. Ming focused on the shooter in the woods, adrenaline sharpening her vision. Without hesitation, she pulled the trigger. Four shots cracked through the air in quick succession.

  The man collapsed, crumpling to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. Ming barely registered the man in the forest before she saw the flash of his muzzle. A sharp, jarring impact sent her MP5 jerking violently out of her hands, the sling yanking it back to slap against her back. Instinct took over as she reached for the Glock holstered at her waist. Her movements were automatic, fluid, the adrenaline surging through her veins like fire.

  She darted out of the man’s line of sight, just making four steps to her right. He was behind the tree, shielded by the trunk. For a tense second, there was silence—then he spun out to the other side in a bid to see her, rifle at the ready. Ming was faster. Her Glock barked, a volley of 9mm rounds hitting him square in the chest. The man staggered, crumpling backward.

  Gunfire erupted to her right, sharp and erratic, but she couldn’t tear her focus away from the woods. She crouched, her pistol trained on the fallen man near the tree, watching for any sign of movement. She fired two shots at him again. Doubt gnawed at her—had she hit him with her second volley? She fired three more rounds, the sound deafening in her ears, ensuring he stayed down.

  Her body remained facing the forest, every nerve on edge, but she turned her head to check on Amir and the others. The scene was chaos. Amir was on his knees, his hands clutching his rifle, but he wasn’t firing. Peter was sitting on the ground, his back straight, unloading his weapon toward the ATVs. Dust filled the air, swirling in thick clouds as bullets cracked and ricocheted off metal and asphalt.

  Ming ducked behind the rear of the Cherokee, her Glock still raised and trained on the woods. Her heart pounded against her ribs, each breath sharp and shallow, but her focus didn’t waver. The chaos around her seemed to slow for a moment as her mind flashed back to the training Amir had drilled into her weeks ago—steps and tactics for this exact scenario.

  Her muscles moved on instinct, her pistol steady, her eyes darting between the forest and the ground ahead as she began to make her way toward Amir. He’d retreated to the side of the Jeep, his figure crouched low, one knee pressed into the dirt.

  Sliding in behind him, Ming pressed her back to his, her Glock still sweeping the woods. The warmth of her presence seemed to jolt Amir from his momentary daze. He didn’t look back but shifted slightly, adjusting his rifle as she covered his rear.

  “I’ve got you,” she murmured under her breath, just loud enough for him to hear over the distant crack of gunfire.

  Together, they formed a makeshift perimeter, their breaths syncing as they scanned for threats.

  Amir stood, his rifle still trained on the ATVs and the man lying motionless beside one of them. He moved back toward the rear of the vehicle, his steps measured, weapon ready. Ming fell in step with him, their movements synchronized without a word. Behind them, Peter fired a few more shots, each crack punctuating the tense air.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Ming caught something—a sudden burst of motion. Ludvig. He had climbed onto an ATV and, instead of retreating the way he’d come earlier, he gunned the engine and sped past the trio and the Cherokee, kicking up a storm of dust in his wake.

  Ming barely had time to react as he tore past. The ATV roared, a blur of movement, before she was hit by a wall of dust. It enveloped her, choking the air and stinging her eyes, forcing her to recoil slightly. Through the haze, she could just make out Ludvig’s figure on the ATV, leaning forward as he swerved wildly to avoid incoming fire.

  Her Glock snapped up, and she opened fire, aiming at his back. The sharp cracks of her shots were muffled by the chaos around her. Ludvig jerked left, then right, the ATV swaying under his desperate attempts to keep control. Then, with a sickening inevitability, it veered off the road.

  The vehicle flipped, skidding into the dirt as Ludvig was thrown violently from the seat. The ATV crashed in a heap, its engine sputtering to silence. Ming lowered her weapon slightly, her breath ragged, watching as Ludvig’s crumpled body came to rest near the wreckage. She saw him move as she shouted that she had to reload. Only when she removed the magazine to replace it with a fresh one did she notice that part of one of her pink finger was missing. She tried her best to work around it as she inserted a fresh full magazine she checked the chamber before yelling “Ready!”.

  Ludvig gasped for air, each breath ragged and shallow as he lay sprawled in the dirt. His head throbbed, the impact from the crash leaving his thoughts scrambled. It was as if his brain had been rebooted, struggling to piece together what had just happened. For a moment, all he could hear was the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. The gunfire—had it stopped? He couldn’t hear anything now. Maybe his brothers had gained the upper hand on the trio. Maybe they’d managed to turn the ambush around.

  The thought gave him a shred of hope.

  It had seemed so simple at first. Ludvig and his four brothers had eavesdropped on the open-air settlement transmissions, something no one had bothered to encrypt, despite how obvious the risk was. They’d figured it was a golden opportunity—a way to scam some unsuspecting traders. His mother’s desperate need for antibiotics had pushed them to act. That, and the promise of loot from traders too naive to expect an ambush, had made it all feel worth it.

  He shook his head, trying to focus, when he heard it: the sound of someone running. Fast.

  Panic surged through him as he instinctively reached for his M4 carbine, lying a few feet away in the grass. His fingers brushed the metal as he gripped it tightly, spinning around just in time to meet the gaze of the girl from earlier—the one with the black gaiter and the cold, calculating eyes.

  She stared him down, her pistol aimed directly at him, unwavering. For a split second, Ludvig’s eyes flicked to her hand—one finger was bleeding, the crimson streak smearing across her grip. The detail struck him as oddly vivid, as if his senses had sharpened in the final moment.

  He barely had time to lift the rifle, the weight of it slow in his shaking hands, before the pistol’s muzzle flashed.

  The shot rang out, bright and sharp, and Ludvig’s world went black in an instant.