Grim. Quiet. Observing.
The one they call when shit gets too dark even for them.
“Hey, Doc,” Mason says, walking beside me as we leave the wire. “Ever psychoanalyse yourself?”
“Every day.”
“Figure out why you’re such a prick yet?”
“Working on it.”
He laughs again.
It doesn’t reach his eyes.
We move through the village slow. Kids peek through shutters, wide-eyed and barefoot. The market’s empty. Too quiet. My gut tightens.
Leo’s voice crackles in my ear: “No movement northeast. Repeat—no movement.”
“Copy,” I say, but the words feel off.
Everything feels off.
Reese shifts beside me, tapping his index twice against the rifle. Our silent signal.
“Eyes up,” I mutter. “Stay sharp.”
And then, like clockwork, like the fucking nightmare that never changes?—
BOOM.
The world splits. Dust explodes around us. Ears ring. Mason’s voice is gone. My knees hit the dirt before I realise I’m falling.
Someone’s screaming.
Maybe me.
Maybe not.
Blood hits my neck warm and fast.
Sticky.
Not mine.
I blink through the smoke.
Mason.
Mason.
He’s writhing on the ground, blood pouring from somewhere I can’t see. His leg—fuck, his leg?—
“Doc! DOC!” Reese’s voice is hoarse. “We need you on him!”
I slide on my knees, gear slicing my side. My hands are already moving. Tourniquet. Pressure. Pressure. Pressure.
“Mason. Hey. You stay with me, you stubborn fuck.”
