Seeing that the car wasn't slowing down—its trajectory locked onto both the blind man and herself—the operator made a split-second decision.

She lunged forward.

"Be careful!"

The man toppled over from the sudden shove, rolling just far enough to escape the path of the vehicle. But she wasn't as fortunate.

Though she tried to twist away using her momentum, the car's hood tracked her like a predator. The bumper slammed into her thigh, knocking her legs out from under her. Her body hit the ground hard.

Then—front wheels, back wheels—crushed her calf.

She was literally trampled, her body dragged into the arc of the car's turning radius before it skidded off.

Her teammates' eyes widened in horror. No one expected this.

In fact, the girl shouldn't got 'injured' at all but her act of heroism landed her to the precarious situation.

Of all scenarios, they'd thought she'd emerge unscathed—especially with the protection talisman Tang Ziyi had provided. Bulletproof, sure. But could it withstand the crushing momentum of a vehicle?

Anger flared in their minds, directed at the reckless driver. But that frustration turned to dread in the blink of an eye.

One of them caught a glimpse of the passenger's face.

Vicious. Intentional.

Their instincts screamed—ambush.

In the very next second, the passenger yanked out a MAC-10.

A criminal's favorite. Compact. Loud. Simple. Brutal. No finesse needed.

The weapon snapped up.

And then—pure chaos.

Ratatatatat!

Muzzle flash lit the inside of the car as the MAC-10 barked. Rounds sprayed in wide arcs, tearing through the air toward the remaining two Spirit Fox operators.

There was not the slightest update, intel or signs from Athena. Their most powerful omniscient weapon missed it.

No warning. No time to react. No time to dive for cover. Plus, their current position was in the worst place.

They barely managed to duck, bodies moving on reflex rather than conscious thought. Their heads cowering to minimize their stature.

Too late to snap their rifles up to counter.

The first rounds hit—thighs, arms, shoulders, chest, even across the face. Dust kicked up from the impacts on the tactical clothing.

Pings rang sharply as bullets ricocheted off their helmets and gear.

But their visors… they'd left them raised.

The two operators collapsed backward under the force, limbs going slack. Their bodies crumpled onto the pavement as shocked screams erupted from the surrounding crowd.

Some stray bullets caught unrelated pedestrians nearby.

Panic swallowed the street. Civilians fled, some ducking behind cars, others frozen in place. Those stuck inside the vehicles for the traffic trembled, hearts pounding.

In just a few seconds, a peaceful patrol turned into a bloody ambush.

Screech!

After rolling over the operator, the car didn't stop—it merely slowed for a heartbeat, then veered off sharply, tires squealing as it drifted away into traffic.

A textbook hit-and-run. Cold. Calculated.

This wasn't an accident—it was an ambush, pure and simple.

The two operators who'd taken the brunt of the MAC-10's spray were lucky. Lucky that Ling Qingyu's gear wasn't just military grade—it was borderline absurd in its protection level. Even then, they weren't unharmed. The impacts bruised, stunned, and battered them.

The one who took a hit to the helmet lay sprawled out, dazed—vision blurred, ears ringing from the shockwave and blunt trauma.

But the other recovered faster.

Still on her back, grit biting into her uniform, she thrust her rifle forward, propping it against her elbow. Safety off. No stance. No breath control. Just pure instinct.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Semi shots.

She dumped rounds in the direction of the fleeing vehicle.

Sparks burst across its frame as bullets peppered the metal. The rear windshield cracked and spiderwebbed under the assault.

Seven rounds under one and a half second, her eyes narrowed—she saw the passenger slump violently. A confirmed hit.

She immediately shifted her muzzle toward the driver's seat.

Pop! Pop! Two more rounds.

The car wobbled. The driver swerved, clearly panicked—either from watching his partner get hit or from the sudden realization that Spirit Fox didn't hesitate to return fire.

But traffic swallowed the vehicle before she could follow up.

She stopped firing, reluctantly.

They weren't vigilantes. Every bullet had to be accounted for. No stray shots. No bystanders hit.

Biting down her frustration, she lowered the rifle and exhaled through clenched teeth. She stumbled to stand up and reached out for her radio.

"Fallen Angel. Fallen Angel. Net call! I say again—FALLEN ANGEL!"

Her voice cut through the comms like a blade. Spirit Fox had just been ambushed.

She switched channels and fired off a rapid sitrep. Vehicle type. Direction. Attack method.

No use mentioning the plate—everything was a blur in the chaos.

"Athena copies. Stay vigilant and secure the scene. Reinforcements en route."

"Roger."

The operator turned back toward her fallen teammates. One was moaning, disoriented, shaking her head from the helmet impact. But she could wait.

Her focus snapped to the one lying still—crushed by the car. No movement. No sound.

She rushed forward, limping from earlier bruises, and dropped to her knees beside her downed partner.

Bullets weren't the problem. Not with their armor and Tang Ziyi's protection protocols. But the talisman—meant to activate only in life-or-death—hadn't triggered.

No defense is perfect. And in that moment, fear trumped logic.

"Hey—girl! Talk to me!"

She slapped her partner's cheek. Once. Twice. Then a third, harder than necessary.

A groan.

"It hurts."

"Where?! Where does it hurt?!" she demanded, panic slipping into her voice. She wasn't used to this—not after everything they'd trained through. Spirit Fox girls didn't complain about pain unless it was serious.

Then the victim's reply came.

"Your hands. Why the hell do you slap that hard? I'm not a rag doll."

The operator blinked. Speechless.

Her partner rolled her eyes and muttered, "You're lucky I'm too injured to return the favor."

"You—!" Her hand twitched as if about to slap again—but instead she exhaled, half in relief, half in exasperation.

The operator was speechless and almost beat this cheeky face. "You wasted my damn heart."

"Ahem… I'm serious when I say pain," her partner groaned.

The operator's heart, which had sunk to her stomach, lifted a little.

"I think I snapped my foot."

"That's it?" she asked, exhaling hard in relief.

"That's it."

"Alright then, let me snap it back for you."

"Fuck you!"

"Oh my god, they survived!"

"Yeah! They were shot up and still fought back. Unreal…"

"Officers, are you okay? I already called emergency responders—help's coming."

"Is there anything we can do?"

The crowd, finally shaken from shock, surged forward with concern. Voices piled over each other, hands reached out. Some people ran up with water, jackets, even tissues. No one questioned how the trio had miraculously survived a brutal gun attack and a car running someone over—they all conveniently ignored that part.

Volunteers stepped in. One operator lay sprawled from the car hit. Another sat dazed and vacant, her mind clearly still rebooting.

But her expression wasn't quite blank. Her eyes tracked every movement with cautious hostility.

She was still on alert. Deeply so. She appreciated the help, truly—but what if someone in the crowd was a second wave? What if another shooter was hiding in plain sight?

The odds were low. But low wasn't zero.

"Oops! Over here! Someone needs help!"

"I think this couple got hit—yeah, they're bleeding!"

Cries of pain snapped her focus around. Her partner, already sensing it, nudged her. "Go. Civilians need you."

She glanced around—sure enough, two people lay on the pavement, bleeding but conscious.

She met her partner's eyes and gave a subtle nod, a warning look that meant: Stay alert.

Then, she trotted heavily over to the injured, feigning pain with each step. Even though she felt fine—miraculously so—she couldn't drop the act. Not now.

If she moved like nothing happened, someone might question how she wasn't hurt. And they couldn't risk exposing their most confidential protection measure.

So, she dragged herself forward, like each step drained her soul. A performance worthy of an Oscar.

And it worked.

Some people in the crowd teared up at the sight. One stepped forward, voice thick with emotion. "Let me help you walk."

"It's alright. Please give us some space."

"Sure, sure! I'm sorry."

"Sorry…" Your support at * keeps the series going.

A wide perimeter formed around her. Inside that circle, she dropped to one knee and assessed the wounded couple. Bullet wounds. Bad, but not fatal—thankfully missing vital organs.

Still, they needed immediate first aid.

She pulled a medical pouch from her vest and began treating them.

"Let me help—I'm a nurse!"

"I'm a doctor… well, resident, but I can assist!"

The two professionals had been frozen earlier, stunned by the sudden violence. But seeing her struggle to move—even in pain—spurred them into action despite their fear. Together, they patched up the bleeding, working fast and clean.

The operator handed over gauze, bandages, coagulant. Let the experts take over. She stepped back and observed quietly.

A few people whispered kind words. Someone gently patted her shoulder.

She felt… guilty.

Their presence had caused this. Civilians got hurt because of them.

But then she turned and caught sight of her two fellow operators.

One was lying back with a bandage on her leg, soaking up sympathy. The other still sprawled like a tragic damsel, eyes closed while people cooed and fawned over her.

And suddenly, the guilt vanished.

Why the hell am I the one stuck pretending to be injured while those bastards just lay around being pampered?

Afterward, she switched her attention to the medical workers and remembered something—Welp, how could the trio continue to pretend to hide in front of these professionals.

She had headaches. Look at her friends, these bastards hadn't realized the stakes yet.