Inside the shattered remnants of a government office building nestled in Taipei’s Zhongzheng District, Lin Mei-hua pressed her back against the cold concrete wall, her breath shallow and uneven. All around her, the sounds of war enveloped the city in a grim symphony—gunfire cracked in sharp bursts, ricocheting off broken walls, punctuated by the distant but unmistakable roar of jets screaming overhead. Rumbles of tank machinery echoed outside. Through the jagged remnants of windowpanes, she caught glimpses of smoke rising like dark sentinels, curling into the heavy summer air.

Her eyes locked onto the sky just in time to see a sleek, silver-blue figure streak low across the horizon—a lone American fighter no doubt, likely from a nearby carrier strike group. In deadly pursuit, a pair of Chinese fighters tore through the air: a plump, angular J-20 and the razor-edged J-50, both shimmering shadows of advanced Chinese air power. Missiles streaked toward the American aircraft, trailing fire and smoke, until the tailless jet spiraled uncontrollably, crashing into the streets below in a thunderous explosion.

Mei-hua’s voice was barely more than a strained whisper. "They’re losing the skies... again," she said, her jaw clenched in quiet anguish.

Behind her, Yu Jie swallowed hard, her face pale. "If our military can't hold out, we’re done before the end of the week or two. We can only hope reinforcements come soon—before it’s too late."

Lin’s hands tightened around her weathered notebook, her heart pounding in her ears. "This isn’t just a battle anymore. It’s about survival. Every story we write, every frame we capture—it has to count, or we might not be here to tell the next chapter."

The faint echo of heavy footsteps in the hallway cut through their tense silence. Every breath caught in their throats as the sound drew closer, slow and deliberate. The door at the end of the room groaned open, swinging inward with a sickening creak.