Bones scratched his chin, avoiding my eyes. "Barricade the doors, set traps, pick ’em off one by one. Got an ammo stash under the floorboards."

I blink, incredulous. “That’s your plan? Bones, this isn’t the damn movies. Stay in here, and we’ll be blown to hell before you can even say ‘barricade.’” I almost laugh, but it’s the kind that comes out sharp, biting. “Pick ’em off one by one? What’s next? Home Alone-style booby traps? Should I grab some frying pans and duct tape while we’re at it?”

He shrugs, and somehow, that’s worse. The man could exasperate a saint. My patience snaps. I storm over to the door and kick it, hard. The latch splinters, the frame groans, and the door swings open like a final, pitiful statement.

“See this?” I snap, pacing outside into the cold. “This is what you’re working with!” The air bites sharper now, a prelude to the night closing in. Long shadows stretch from the trees, their branches too still. The silence is suffocating, as though the entire mountain is holding its breath. I scan the horizon—nothing yet, but they're coming.

“Look, I’m sorry, Reb,” Bones says from behind me, his voice steady, gruff enough to add to my rising irritation. “Shouldn’t have dragged you out here.”

I turn, ready to lash out, and there he is—grabbing an axe and setting a log on the chopping block, like we’re prepping for a cozy weekend in the woods. “Oh yeah? And what was your alternative, Bones? Let them paint the walls with you?”

He doesn’t flinch. Just lines up his swing with a precision that makes something flicker in my chest—a hint of the man I used to know. The axe comes down hard, splitting the log in one sharp crack that makes the trees shiver. “Figured I’d die out here anyway. I didn't expect you to stay, I just..”

“Sure know how to make a girl feel special,” cutting him off, turning back toward the cabin. The cold stings my face, but it’s nothing compared to the storm brewing inside me. “Give me a few minutes,” I toss over my shoulder.

“Take your time,” he grunts, yanking the axe free. “I'll go shoot the breeze with the big guy upstairs, maybe he'll listen this time”

I don’t dignify that with a response. Inside, I drop my rucksack onto the creaky old table, its joints whining under the weight. I unzip it, pulling out my gear. This wasn’t my first dance. I step into the black jumpsuit, the fabric clinging like a second skin—practical, silent, deadly. Gloves follow, seamless and snug, before I streak black paint across my cheekbones and jaw, reducing myself to shadows, movement, intent.

The katana comes last. Its scabbard gleams, catching the last flickers of sunlight through the broken doorway. The blade itself—smooth, pristine—feels alive in my hands, balanced and sharp enough to part the air. Some people prefer guns, the clean detachment of a trigger. Not me. A blade forces you to get close, to feel the fight. It’s personal. Honest, in a way that cuts deeper than steel.

I check my gear one last time, each motion deliberate, calculated. The cabin is quiet now, the silence too heavy, like the air before a storm. Pulling up my hood, I push what’s left of the door open and step out.

The cold air claws at my lungs, and the setting sun throws the peaks into shadow. Bones is somewhere in the trees, no doubt gathering wood like we’re preparing for winter instead of war. Fine. Let him have his moment. I have work to do.

I adjust the strap of the katana on my back and take a long, steady breath. My pulse doesn’t waver. If this was my last stand, so be it. No one else was going to write my ending.