The rain hammers against my back, drowning out all other sound as I hunch over my work. My hands are slick with mud and water, but they don't stop. The turret's almost done, just a few more bolts, a bit of calibration, and it'll be ready. I don't look up, not even when the storm lets out a crack of thunder that shakes the stones beneath me.

But when I hear the sound of footsteps—staggering, uneven—I freeze. For a moment, I think it's them. The exploiter. The one hunting us down. My heart quickens, but I don't stop working. If it's them, I'll need this turret more than ever.

The footsteps get closer, then falter. A body collapses nearby, heavy and defeated. Slowly, I glance up.

It's Two-Time.

They're a wreck—clothes torn, blood dripping from his side, his face pale under the rain. Their hands press weakly against the wound, and their breaths are short, shaky. They look up, his usual cocky smirk replaced with something raw.

"Builderman," They choked out, Their voice barely audible over the rain. "Help."

For a second, I don't move. It's not hesitation; it's the sharp sting of realization. They made it here. Barely, but they made it. I shove the turret parts aside and move to them.

"Two-Time," I say, crouching down beside them. "What happened?"

"Exploiter," They say, spitting the word out like a curse.

I nod, not wasting time on more questions. My hands go to their wound, pressing against it just enough to stop the bleeding. They wince, hissing through their teeth, but doesn't fight me.

"You're lucky you got away," I mutter, more to myself than to him.

"Yeah, real lucky," They say, managing a dry chuckle. "Could use a little less luck and a lot more firepower next time."