I see the branches: if she fires, I'm dead. The angles are wrong, I'm too slow, too hurt. No dodge pattern works. The precog shows me six different ways to move and all of them end with a hole in my head.

  I could overclock. Full 2-3 seconds ahead, live in the future, find the optimal path. But I'm already running on fumes and blood loss. The branches show what happens if I try: I activate, see the perfect dodge, execute it, then collapse from the strain. She walks over and finishes the job while I'm on the ground bleeding from my eyes.

  Decision tree narrows to: accept death, or find third option.

  Third option: she doesn't fire.

  Why wouldn't she fire? Professional calculation. She's hurt - broken fingers, liver damage, accumulated impacts. I landed better shots than she expected. The fight took longer than planned. Neighbors heard gunshots, someone definitely called police. Response time in this neighborhood is maybe 8-12 minutes, we're at minute four.

  If she kills me now and can't extract cleanly, she's caught at a crime scene. Kingdom can't protect her from that much exposure. Better to retreat, report partial success, preserve the asset for future operations.

  There has to be some sort of move I can make. I refuse to live in a world where the two options are death and death. She's still sweeping her gun from where the phone used to exist towards my center mass.

  I need to do something that I wouldn't do. I've gotten too good at predicting myself. More importantly, she's gotten too good at predicting me.

  Think.

  Think!

  Think!

  I lunge for her face and swing with a Bloodhound style haymaker from my good arm, the one without a bullet in it. Clumsy. Purposeful. Something that anyone with even the slightest amount of knife training would see as an easy opening, something that her muscle memory can't resist. I whiff, inches from her nose, not even close. Her knife enters my upper arm while I bring my hand down hard on the inside of her elbow, and the blade comes right out. It hurts and feels worse than it is, but getting cut is better than getting shot.

  I'm trying to think of something to say. The tiny Sam Small homunculus in my brain demands a quip, something like "Next time, send two people," but I bite it back. No energy for bravado. No point antagonizing her into pulling the trigger just to prove something.

  I twist my arms around her wrist - a classic white belt level Jiu-Jitsu move, way below my skill level but drilled into me so many times it's been branded into my soul. Both arms, downward pressure with the forearms, in, out, then away, the same way you break a front choke. Then, two hands, I grab the gun and flick it, I don't care where, just behind me, where she'd need to get past me in order to get it.

  She gets another good shiv in on my abs and I swallow a yell. Then, I can't swallow any more, and I let out a roar of pain.

  Three seconds ahead, now. We're both angry. My body moves without my conscious interaction, but not dissociation. Just every finger, every joint, every part and piece and cell knowing exactly where it needs to be so that three seconds from now she no longer has a knife, either. I can see her future self as a slight overlay. Instantly, I feel blood burst into my throat from an exploding vessel somewhere in my nose. There's an exchange - knife to hand, deflect, grab the wrist, twist, pull, yank. She inhales sharply.

  For a second, she's on me like we're about to waltz together. Her hands grip at my skin through the cuts in my shirt, like she's trying to grab hold of me. Then, a turn, and she goes sailing around my side, into my couch, knife liberated. An axe kick lands on the cushion where she was a second ago, and then my brain slides back into real time, foot planted in the couch.

  She's panting. But she's not done. My heart hammers in my chest, feeling like it's about to burst out of me. My blood is leaking out faster than it should be. What? No. Right. Her gloves - they're palmless. Coated in a fine layer of red - my blood. She wasn't just cutting me up, she was making slits to manhandle me. I feel dizzy. Her hand pulls something out from inside her belt.

  Glass-breaking hammer. Small, dense, red handle. Car safety tool. She gives me one last harsh, squealing swing, bringing it vertical from her lower back and up into the air. That would be a jaw-breaking blow if it hit me, but as it is, she's just making space. It swooshes through the air. I keep my distance.

  It's not like I have anything left to begin with. I lost count of how many times I just got stabbed. I couldn't follow her even if I wanted to, so who's she making space for? I have to assume she assumes I can go for a lot longer than I can. Or maybe it's about time pressure. I could probably keep her here - trade my life, or at least years of disability, to get her collared. I know that. She knows that. We're both calculating each other.

  She looks at the hammer. Then she looks at me, and at her hands. My heart is pounding in my chest, and on an exhale, blood spurts out of my nose like an arthouse Japanese samurai film. Something's wrong with my blood pressure. I'm sweating. My skin feels flush.

  I know exactly what she's thinking. Will I bleed out fast enough for mission success, or does she need to finish the job?

  There's a beat, a second, a third. Then, the first words I think I hear her say in real time. "Mother fucker," she cusses. She drags herself over to the window, barely able to keep the hammer held in her sprained wrist, clutching her side where I slammed into her liver. She swings, and the hammer hits the window, and it explodes outward in a cascade of glass. Cold January air rushes in, carrying sounds of the city. Someone shouts from another apartment. The breaking glass is somehow louder than the gunfire was, more immediate, more real.

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  She's through the window before I can process it. One smooth motion - hammer dropped, hands on frame, body through. I hear her land on the ground outside. First floor means it's just a four-foot drop, easy even injured.

  I should look. Should see which direction she runs, give police something to work with. But my legs decide independently that standing is no longer viable. I sit down hard on my kitchen floor, back against the cabinet, and the pain that I've been compartmentalizing floods in all at once.

  The gunshot wound in my shoulder is grinding wrongness. The stab wounds are burning cold. My hip is screaming. Blood is soaking through my sweatpants, my shirt, pooling warm beneath me on the linoleum. The apartment smells like copper and cordite and something chemical from the broken laptop.

  My phone is destroyed. The window is gone. There's bullet holes in my cabinets. My textbook is still open on the desk, coffee mug still half-full, like I just stepped away for a moment and will be right back to studying.

  I can hear sirens now. Multiple vehicles, getting closer. Someone definitely called it in. Gunshots in an apartment building, you call 911. That's just what you do.

  I should move. Should get to the door, unlock it for EMS, make this easier for everyone. But moving requires coordination I don't have right now. Sitting is hard enough. Standing feels impossible.

  The branches show what happens if I stay here: police arrive in 90 seconds, EMS right behind them, I get treated on scene then transported to hospital. Bullet removal, wound cleaning, observation. I survive.

  The branches show what happens if I try to leave: I make it maybe twenty feet before collapsing. Police find me in the hallway or on the street, more complicated medical situation, worse outcomes.

  Easy decision: stay put.

  I close my eyes. Not sleeping, just resting them. The overhead light is too bright and my head is starting to pound. Blood loss, probably. Or adrenaline crash. Or both.

  Fifteen seconds.

  The sirens are right outside now. I can see red and blue lights reflecting through my broken window. Car doors slamming. Radio chatter. Heavy footsteps in the hallway.

  "Police! Anyone inside?"

  I should answer. Should say something. My voice comes out rough, barely audible even to me. "Kitchen. Injured. Door's unlocked."

  Did they hear that? I try again, louder. "Kitchen!"

  The door opens. Two officers, guns drawn, sweeping the apartment. They see me and the guns come down. One of them keys his radio: "We've got one injured civilian, male, twenties, multiple gunshot and stab wounds. Get EMS in here now."

  The other officer is kneeling next to me, assessing. "Sir, can you hear me? What's your name?"

  "Maxwell Martinez." My voice sounds distant even to myself. "Delaware Valley Defenders. ID in my wallet."

  That changes something in his expression. Recognition, maybe respect. DVD credentials carry weight. "Okay, Maxwell. EMS is coming. Can you tell me what happened?"

  "Woman. Maroon suit. Broke in, started shooting. She went out the window maybe two minutes ago."

  He's already on radio: "Suspect is female, maroon clothing, fled through window on foot. Last seen heading..." He looks at me.

  I try to think. Which direction would she go? Left and right is the easiest thing in the world. But it's... she's too far out. I can't see backwards. I can't see from anyone's brain but my own. "Don't know. She was professional. I don't know if you'll be able to find her."

  "Let us worry about that. Just stay with me, okay? EMS is almost here."

  The other officer is checking the apartment. I can hear him calling out what he finds: "Multiple shell casings, kitchen. Destroyed phone. Blood trail to the window. Lots of blood by the counter - probably the suspect's. We might get DNA."

  Fat chance. "That's mine," I clarify. I don't remember a drop leaving her. Maybe a rookie mistake on my part.

  More footsteps. Different pattern - EMS, with their equipment. A woman's voice, calm and practiced: "Hi Maxwell, I'm Sarah, I'm a paramedic. We're going to take care of you, okay? Can you tell me where you're hurt?"

  Where do I start? "Gunshot wounds. Shoulder, hip. Stab wounds, multiple. Left side mostly. Ribs, arm, leg."

  She's cutting my shirt open, exposing the wounds. I hear her sharp intake of breath. Professional enough not to say "oh shit" but I can tell she's thinking it.

  "Okay. We're going to stop the bleeding, get you stable, then transport to Jefferson. You're going to be okay. Just stay with me."

  Hands on me, pressure on wounds, sharp pain that makes me gasp. They're packing the worst ones, applying pressure, working efficient and fast. I try to track what they're doing but my focus is slipping. Everything's getting fuzzy at the edges.

  "BP is 90 over 60 and dropping. We need to move."

  "Backboard?"

  "No time. Get him on the gurney."

  They're lifting me. My shoulder screams and I might make a sound. Everything tilts and blurs. The ceiling passes above me, then doorway, then hallway. Other residents watching from their doors, faces concerned or curious or scared.

  The ambulance is bright and loud. Equipment everywhere, someone putting an IV in my arm, someone else still working on the wounds. The vehicle starts moving and every bump sends pain through my shoulder.

  "Maxwell, stay with me. Keep your eyes open."

  I'm trying. But my eyes want to close. Everything's so heavy. The adrenaline that kept me going through the fight is gone, and there's nothing left to run on.

  "Lost consciousness. Systolic is 85. Push more fluids."

  Someone's shining a light in my eyes. Someone else is talking to the hospital on radio, giving report. Trauma notifications, I think. Or I'm imagining it. Hard to tell.

  When I wake up, it's different. Cleaner. Quieter. Hospital, definitely. There's a consistent beeping that's probably my heart monitor. My shoulder is a dull ache instead of screaming wrongness - they gave me pain medication. Good medication, the kind that makes everything soft around the edges.

  I try to open my eyes. Takes effort. Everything's still blurry.

  A nurse notices. She's at my bedside immediately, checking vitals. "Welcome back, Mr. Martinez. You're at Jefferson University Hospital. You had surgery. The bullet's out, wounds are cleaned and sutured. You're going to be fine, but you need to rest."

  Rest sounds nice. But there's something I need to do. Something important.

  "Time?" My voice is sandpaper.

  "About 6 AM. You've been in surgery and recovery for several hours."

  Six hours since the fight. Sam's probably awake by now. Has she seen the news? Does she know I'm here?

  "Phone?"

  "Destroyed, I'm afraid. Police said it was in pieces. We can have someone bring you a replacement, or you can use the room phone once you're more stable."

  I need to leave. The thought crystallizes with sudden clarity despite the medication fog. A hospital isn't safe. They sent one assassin, they can send another. Or just someone to "check on me" who makes sure I don't wake up.

  The nurse is still talking about recovery time, observation protocols, physical therapy. I'm not listening. I'm looking at the IV in my arm, the monitor leads on my chest, the call button within reach.

  "I need to talk to my surgeon as soon as possible," I say, preparing myself for the worst. "I need to be out of here yesterday,"