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“You ready, Terror-Billy?” Anya’s voice was soft, but it cut through the low drone of the vents. She stood by the doorway, her silhouette framed by the flickering fluorescent lights of the Eva’s Hammer .

As the Eva’s Hammer submerged, the vibrations of the massive engines echoed through BJ’s bones. He thought of his unborn twins, of the world he wanted them to inherit. He wasn't fighting for glory, and he certainly wasn't fighting for the old world—that world was gone, buried under swastikas and concrete. He was fighting for the next world.

The journey to Roswell was a blur of preparation and quiet contemplation. Seth Roth, the resident genius of the resistance, spent hours recalibrating BJ’s suit. “You are a miracle of biology and engineering, William,” Seth would say, his hands moving with frantic precision. “Don’t go breaking yourself before we finish the job.”

Back on the Eva’s Hammer , Anya met him in the hangar. She didn't say a word, just leaned her forehead against his armored chest. “We did it,” she whispered.