The next morning came painted in ash and fog.
No birds. No wind. Just tension.
Becky shoved a stick into the campfire and poked the embers like they owed her money. “So, are we gonna talk about it?”
Anya blinked. “Talk about what?”
Becky snapped the stick in half. “You. Giving me the stink-eye like I’m wearing a traitor T-shirt.”
Damian sat nearby, sharpening his blade. “Not the time.”
Becky stood up, firelight dancing in her eyes. “It wasn’t me, Anya.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Anya said. Her voice was too calm. Too ready.
“Oh wow,” Becky scoffed. “So now I’m suspicious because I make jokes and carry cookware?”
“You’re suspicious because someone keeps leaking our location and you’re the only one who disappears to ‘pee’ for twenty minutes.”
Damian looked up sharply.
Becky’s voice cracked. “After everything we’ve been through…”
Anya stood. “That’s the problem. I don’t know what we’ve been through. This game warps people. And if I trust the wrong one—”
The earth split.
No, not literally. But it felt like it.
A landmine. Old tech. Buried in the weeds.
Becky stepped on it first.
“—Becky!”
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"BOOM."
She flew backwards, limbs flailing, a scream ripped from her chest as she hit the ground with a wet crunch. Blood bloomed. She wasn’t moving.
Anya’s heart stopped.
The assassin squad hadn’t come back. But someone had.
Three cloaked figures emerged from the trees, guns raised, masks on.
“Kill confirmed?” one muttered.
“She’s alive,” said another. “The one in red—still breathing.”
Anya didn’t think.
She didn’t choose to fight.
She became the fight.
One moment she was frozen, the next she was flying — grabbing Becky’s pan from the dirt and launching it full-force into a gunman’s face.
It connected with a sickening 'thunk'.
She tackled the next enemy like a wolf, ripping his blade from its sheath and plunging it into his shoulder.
Blood sprayed.
Her mind didn’t register the gore — only the rhythm.
Block. Twist. Parry. Strike.
No game cheats. No overlays. Just raw instinct.
She wasn’t just fighting to survive.
She was fighting like someone who couldn’t afford to lose anything else.
Especially not Becky.
Damian joined in late. Too late.
Anya was already soaked in sweat, adrenaline, and someone else’s blood when he finally finished the last attacker.
Silence fell like a body.
Anya collapsed to her knees beside Becky.
“Don’t you dare die on me, you frying pan freak.”
Becky groaned weakly. “Okay… that’s rude. I’m just… doing some light hemorrhaging…”
Tears welled in Anya’s eyes. “I thought I didn’t care. But I do. I do, okay? You annoying, pun-slinging noodlehead.”
Becky opened one eye. “Did you… did you call me a noodlehead?”
“Shut up and stay alive.”
Becky coughed. “That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
They made camp again.
This time, closer to the ruins of a broken satellite tower.
Anya stitched Becky’s leg with shaking hands.
Damian stayed quiet, but Anya watched him too.
Too quiet. Always calculating. Always surviving.
Becky stirred as Anya tucked her into the bedroll. “You still think it’s me?” she whispered.
Anya hesitated.
“I want to believe it’s not,” she said. “But I don’t know who’s lying to me anymore.”
Becky’s face crumpled. “Then maybe you should ask who benefits if we never trust each other.”
And with that, she turned her back and pretended to sleep.
But she didn’t sleep.
Hours later, under the cover of darkness, Becky opened her eyes.
Silent. Cold.
She limped to her backpack, pulled out a walkie-talkie tucked deep beneath a false lining.
She pressed the button.
“We’re near the tower ruins. Resting. Coordinates sent.”
A crackle. A reply in static. Then silence.
Becky stared at Anya, still asleep, her breath steady, face peaceful.
Then Becky whispered to the night, “I’m sorry.”
But her face?
Unreadable.
