Rolf killed the engine. The cockpit opened with a hiss of stale air. He climbed down the emergency ladder—no time for the lift—and his boots hit the mud.

The mono-eye flickered back on—emergency backup power. The Zaku’s torso twisted with a grinding shriek of damaged servos. Its remaining arm raised the heat axe. Not to swing. To throw.

The Zaku’s mono-eye died first.

He walked the GM backward, each step a prayer to the actuators. The ruined city loomed on both sides—dead apartment blocks, a burned-out Type 61 tank, a Zeon supply truck still smoking. Somewhere, a child was crying. Or maybe it was the wind through shattered glass.

Don’t move. Please don’t move.