Life Goes on.
Diana didn't hesitate. She cut across the street like a blade — no plan, no second thoughts, just pure, hot motion. Bullets slammed into the asphalt around her, kicked up sparks and smoke, but she kept running.
Vencor stood framed by the van's open door, calm as always, amusement playing on his face as if this were theater. Diana closed the distance in three raw strides. She reared back and punched him full in the jaw — a clean, brutal impact that snapped his head to the side and knocked his grin off.
For a second everything froze: Vencor stumbling, his men gaping, guns wavering. Diana's chest heaved; blood welled at a cut on her cheek where a round grazed her, but she didn't care. Her eyes were wild and steady at once — furious, fearless.
She spat in his direction and snarled, voice raw:
"Don't touch mine."
Chaos erupted as his men recovered. They lunged. Diana didn't wait — she moved like a cyclone, forcing them to pay for the hit. But the first, savage blow had landed where it needed to: straight on Vencor's face, thunder in flesh.
Diana swung again — ready to land another strike — but before her fist could even reach, three of Vencor's men slammed into her from the side. The impact drove her back, boots grinding against the asphalt.
She threw an elbow, cracked one man's nose, but another wrapped an arm around her neck while a third drove a knee into her stomach. She gritted her teeth, refusing to scream, her face twisted with fury.
Still, she didn't fall. Even surrounded, even bleeding, she clawed one soldier's face, headbutted another — but they kept coming, piling on her, slamming her into a car. The glass shattered behind her.
She spat blood, eyes still locked on Vencor through the chaos.
"...Cowards."
Then the butt of a rifle slammed against the back of her head — her body dropping to her knees, the world spinning, but that defiant fire in her eyes didn't go out.
Diana slowly pushed herself up, blood trickling down her lip, vision blurry — but she refused to stay down.
She tore off her torn jacket and tossed it aside, revealing her shirt underneath, her muscles tense, breath sharp and heavy. The air around her felt charged, dangerous.
Her eyes locked on the swarm of Vencor's men again — no fear, just a wild, determined glare.
"Alright…" she muttered, rolling her shoulders, cracking her neck. "Round two."
Then she rushed forward — bare arms swinging like blades, her fists colliding with armor and bone.
Diana lunged into the fray — her feet pounding the cracked pavement, every strike fueled by sheer defiance.
A soldier swung a baton — she ducked low, twisted, and slammed her elbow into his ribs. Another came from behind; she spun, heel crashing into his jaw with a sharp crack.
Gunfire roared around her. Bullets grazed her arm, slicing through her sleeve, but she didn't flinch. She charged. Grabbed a rifle, slammed the butt of it into the shooter's face, and kicked him down.
Her breathing was heavy now, her shirt torn, sweat mixing with blood. Yet her eyes — that calm rage — never faded.
One of Vencor's men hesitated, seeing her still standing amidst a pile of groaning bodies. Diana tilted her head, voice low, steady:
"Don't stop now. You started this."
And with that, she sprinted forward again — fists and fury against an army.
The battlefield was chaos — smoke, gunfire, and the stench of burned asphalt. Diana's breath came sharp, her shirt torn, body bruised, but her eyes burned — unwavering.
She stumbled forward through the smog, stepping over fallen soldiers, blood dripping from her arm. Her vision blurred for a second — but she saw him.
Vencor.
The man stood a few meters ahead, calm, towering, watching her like she was nothing more than a stray animal refusing to die.
Diana's chest rose and fell. She spat blood to the side, tightened her fists, then pulled a small metal cylinder from her belt — a grenade.
Her grip trembled slightly, not from fear, but from resolve.
"Emma…" she whispered under her breath. "You better… win."
And she sprinted.
Bullets ripped past her. One grazed her shoulder, another cut across her leg — but she didn't stop. She ran with everything she had left, straight toward Vencor.
He raised his arm, ready to block — but she jumped.
Her body crashed into his, the impact echoing as she wrapped her arm around him, grenade pin already pulled.
"For them!" she screamed — face inches from his.
A flash of shock crossed Vencor's face — then fury. In one brutal motion, he grabbed her wrist, twisted it, and ripped the grenade free.
"Stupid girl."
He hurled it to the side — the explosion erupted behind them, a deafening BOOM that shook the air.
Before Diana could react, his boot connected with her stomach — the impact launched her backward.
She hit the ground hard, rolling, coughing blood, gasping for air.
Vencor stepped closer, his shadow stretching over her broken frame.
"You almost had me," he said coldly. "Almost."
Diana's fingers clawed the dirt, her eyes half-open — but still burning.
Even as her vision dimmed, she grinned weakly.
"You're not… untouchable."
Vencor's smirk faded for a second. Then he turned, walking away — as the faint sound of sirens began to echo in the distance.
And Diana, lying amidst the smoke and rubble, closed her eyes — not dead, but barely holding on.
Vencor ordered them not to touch her.
He wants to see where will this go.
He laughed as he walked away.
And so. His men followed
Leaving diana alone
------
Diana stumbled into the hospital through the side door, her entire body shaking.
Her shirt was torn, her arms lined with cuts and burns. The moment she entered, the nurses gasped — but Diana didn't stop. She covered her head with a hood, ignoring the pain, ignoring their calls for her to sit down.
She made her way down the long hallway, step by step, her boots echoing softly on the tile floor. Every step sent a wave of pain through her ribs, but her eyes never left the door at the very end — Room 304.
She pushed it open.
The smell of disinfectant hit her first. Then the quiet hum of machines.
Her mother lay there — pale, unmoving, her face peaceful beneath the oxygen mask. The same way she had been since Diana was in grade six.
Diana stood at the door for a second. Then walked in, slowly.
She sat beside the bed, staring at her mother's face. Her hands trembled. She reached forward — and gently brushed a strand of hair away from her mother's cheek.
"Hey… Mom."
Her voice was quiet, hoarse from screaming and smoke.
"I got stronger, you know. I'm not the same kid who cried in this room."
Her lips quivered slightly. "I fought. I fought real hard. For people who believe in me… for Emma… for everyone who doesn't deserve this world's trash."
A tear rolled down her cheek — but she didn't sob. She just stared at her mother's still face, as if waiting for her to open her eyes.
"I almost died today," she whispered. "But I couldn't. Because I still have to fix this mess. I still have to make it right."
Her voice softened, trembling.
"I miss you, Mom… I miss you so much."
For a while, there was only silence. Just the quiet rhythm of the heart monitor — steady, unchanged.
Diana sat there for a long time. Then she slowly stood up, her injuries weighing heavy on her.
She looked at her mother one last time, whispered,
"I'll come back… when it's over."
And with that, she pulled her hood up again and walked out of the hospital, limping — into the cold night, disappearing into the darkness once more.
The cold night air bit through Diana's torn shirt. Her steps were uneven — one leg dragging, blood trickling down her arm. The hospital lights faded behind her as she limped down the empty street, every breath sharp with pain.
Her vision blurred. The world tilted.
She pressed a hand to her ribs — still bleeding from the earlier fight — but her body finally gave in.
Her knees buckled.
She stumbled once… twice… then collapsed forward.
Just before she hit the ground —
a pair of strong arms caught her.
"...You idiot."
That calm, low voice — it was Emma's.
Diana blinked weakly, her eyes trying to focus.
Emma stood there, wearing her dark coat, her expression cold but her eyes heavy with something unspoken.
"Emma…" Diana muttered, voice barely audible. "You… you came back…"
Emma didn't answer immediately. She crouched, adjusted Diana's arm around her shoulder, and lifted her onto her back — effortlessly, despite her own exhaustion.
"You said you'd buy me breakfast when this was all over," Emma said quietly, starting to walk.
Her tone was flat… but her pace was careful, steady.
Diana smiled faintly, her eyes half-closed.
"You remembered that…?"
Emma didn't reply — she just kept walking through the dark, her boots echoing against the pavement.
The streetlights flickered as she carried Diana on her back, heading toward the new hideout hidden beyond the old industrial zone.
The night wind brushed against them, rustling Emma's hair, but her steps never wavered.
Behind them — silence.
Ahead — faint light from the hideout's door.
Diana's voice came out faint, almost like a whisper.
"…I couldn't… kill him…"
"I know," Emma said quietly. "You did what you could."
And as Diana finally drifted into unconsciousness on her back, Emma's expression softened for just a moment — a small, rare moment of warmth.
She whispered, almost to herself,
"Rest. You've done enough."
And continued walking — carrying her friend through the night.
Emma kicked open the metal door of the hideout — the sound echoing through the dimly lit warehouse.
Celeste immediately turned her head from the table of medical tools, her white coat half-open, stethoscope around her neck. Her eyes widened when she saw Emma, bruised and silent, carrying Diana limp across her back.
"God—!" Celeste rushed forward. "Put her here, now!"
Emma didn't waste a second. She laid Diana gently on the steel table, her hands trembling just slightly as she stepped back.
Celeste immediately began assessing — gloves on, light over Diana's face, checking her pulse, ribs, bleeding.
"She's been shot twice," Celeste muttered quickly, grabbing gauze. "Bruised ribs, possible internal bleeding. Emma, what the hell happened out there?"
Emma didn't answer. Her eyes were still fixed on Diana — motionless, breathing weakly, her face pale under the light.
"Emma!" Celeste barked
"…Vencor's men," Emma finally said coldly. "She stayed behind. Bought us time."
Celeste clenched her jaw. "Idiot girl…" She pressed down on Diana's wound; Diana twitched slightly, a faint groan escaping her lips.
Mostang appeared at the door next, cigarette still burning in his hand. His usual calm was gone. "What the hell happened?"
"She almost died," Celeste snapped. "If you've got time to talk, grab me more gauze and morphine. Now."
He rushed to obey, for once speechless.
Emma stepped closer again, her expression unreadable.
"Will she survive?"
Celeste didn't look up as she stitched. "If I'm fast enough—yes. But she's not fighting for herself anymore. She's exhausted. Physically, mentally. She's running on fumes."
Silence.
Celeste's hands worked fast, efficient, practiced.
Emma stood there quietly, watching. The light reflected off her eyes — eyes that looked tired, but sharp as ever.
Finally, Celeste spoke again, her tone softening just a little.
"She risked her life for all of you. Don't let that go to waste, Emma."
Emma said nothing. She turned her back, walking to the corner of the room, her coat dragging across the concrete floor.
"…I won't."
And as Celeste continued working, Diana's breathing steadied — faint, but alive.
Emma leaned against the wall, eyes closed for a moment, whispering just under her breath:
"Don't die, Diana."
The soft hum of a ceiling fan filled the quiet hideout room. Moonlight seeped through the cracks in the boarded windows, washing everything in a pale glow.
Diana's eyelids fluttered open. For a moment, she saw nothing but blurred light and shadow. Her body ached — her ribs throbbed with a dull burn, and her arms felt heavy as lead. But she was alive.
She slowly turned her head. Beside her bed sat Emma — silent, composed, a cup of water in hand. Her hair looked a little messier than usual, dark strands falling over tired eyes that hadn't seen rest in days.
"…You're awake," Emma said quietly. Her tone wasn't emotional, but there was something different in her eyes — a rare softness.
Diana blinked a few times, her voice rasping, "...How long was I out?"
"A week," Emma replied, gently raising the cup to Diana's lips. "Drink."
Diana obeyed. The water was cool, easing her dry throat. After a few sips, she let out a weak laugh. "You… stayed up all that time?"
Emma looked away for a second, as if trying to brush it off. "Everyone else was asleep. Someone had to make sure you didn't die in your sleep."
Diana smirked faintly, though her voice wavered. "You could've just said you cared, y'know…"
Emma didn't respond right away. She just looked at Diana — that same piercing stare that always carried too much behind it.
Then, softly, she said, "You shouldn't have stayed behind that day."
Diana's smile faded. "If I hadn't, you'd all be dead."
Emma's eyes lowered. "…Still. Don't do that again."
For a moment, silence filled the air. Just two people, one recovering, one haunted by everything they'd seen.
Diana leaned her head back against the pillow. "Heh. You sound like my mom."
Emma gave the faintest exhale through her nose — the closest thing she'd ever give to a laugh.
Then she said, in that low, calm voice of hers, "Get better soon. We're moving again once you can walk properly."
Diana grinned, eyes closing again. "Yeah, yeah… whatever you say."
Emma's eyes softened a bit more at that name — not with pride, but something closer to guilt. She looked at Diana one last time, and whispered:
"Rest. I'll be here."
Chapter end