The weight of Hanseong's katana didn't shake in his grip, but the woman he held against it did.
Her breath was shallow, teeth clenched. Minji, if he remembered right. Her hair was matted with sweat and debris, one cheek streaked with dried blood from the earlier clash. Her arms twitched slightly—ready to resist, maybe—but the blade at her neck made it a gamble even she wasn't ready to take.
Across the hallway, his sister stood like stone. The whip in her hand still hummed with residual force, its coiled segments glowing faintly with traces of inertia. She didn't lift it again. Not yet. Her gaze flicked between Minji and him, torn in a way Hanseong hadn't seen since they were kids fighting over scraps in the old world.
"Minji," she called softly, voice strained.
Minji didn't flinch. Her chin lifted slightly as she met her commander's eyes.
"Don't worry about me," she said through gritted teeth. "Take him out."
