The mission ignites with fear and firelight as Britt and Joss become the center of a high-stakes gambit that could reshape Port Charles bonds.
Rain slicks the docks until every footstep sounds guilty. Britt steadies her breathing; Joss scans for friend or foe and finds too much shadow to tell. Then the signal—two short, one long—says help is near but not near enough. “Operation rescue… is on” isn’t bravado; it’s a prayer with choreography.
What matters first is containment. Keep Britt and Joss small, keep their world smaller. Every crate becomes a wall, every rope a tripwire waiting to be repurposed. The overcast palette isn’t just mood; it’s cover. Somewhere above, Jason’s grid (Blog4) tries to sync with a dockside timeline that refuses to cooperate. Somewhere across town, Drew’s case (Blog1) hums like a warning: if the same network orchestrates both nightmares, tonight’s outcome will echo.
Britt’s medical brain tracks vitals and exits at once; Joss fights the urge to sprint. Their strength is coordination: whisper-short comms, trust the plan, improvise only when the plan breaks. It will. Port Charles plans always do. The trick is breaking forward—trading one risk for a better one. When the boat light stutters twice, hope spikes; when a radio squawks too close, it drops. Chaos is the rhythm. Survival is staying on beat.
Partial resolution: a path opens not because enemies fail, but because greed does. Someone decides to cut corners on their own safety, and that’s the moment good people run. Tonight, that might be enough.
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If you had one call to make from those docks, who gets it—and what three words do you say first?
