The Stalker launched itself off the barricade, its jagged claws extended toward Kael's chest.
Mara's partner executed his role flawlessly. Unburdened by the Trojan fever, the spy stepped directly into the beast's path, ripping a scavenged, rusted P.A.C.I.F.I.C. sidearm from his belt.
Mara watched him closely. It was a masterclass in anti-muscle memory. Kael was a Platinum-tier killer; a clumsy misfire went against every instinct drilled into him. To pull it off, she saw him deliberately limp-wrist the grip and panic-pull the trigger.
The gun barked once, the shot going wide, before the slide jammed spectacularly. Kael stared at the locked weapon in perfect, helpless horror.
The Stalker lunged, pinning Kael to the floor. Its jaws snapped inches from his face, acidic saliva dripping onto his collar. Mara knew Kael could have crushed the beast's windpipe with two fingers. Instead, he just screamed louder, playing the bait.
