Svetlana's head snapped up. Her eyes—orange fractals swirling like dying stars—locked on him with that same savage defiance.
Her voice was just a whisper—hoarse, bitter, broken. "Now… I'll have to use that."
Arsenal's grin faded.
Arata's eyes narrowed.
Flickering lights above cast long, sharp shadows across the Reality Plotter's bloodstained smile.
She reached under her coat — a small, battered switch clutched between trembling fingers.
Click.
Beep… beep… beep…
A red countdown pulsed to life on her wrist display. 60 seconds.
Arata's heart slammed against his ribs. "What the hell is that?!"
"Could be a bomb. Could be a dimension ripper. Could be a damn bluff — GET HER!" Arsenal roared.
They lunged — concrete cracked beneath Arata's boots, Arsenal's cane shotgun whirled around like a bayonet.
