Shrapnel’s still in me. I can feel it. A sharp burn low in my ribs, wet heat dripping under my vest. Every breath tastes like metal, like smoke swallowed down raw.
My fingers twitch at my side, searching for my rifle. I find it, but it feels wrong. Too heavy. Like it belongs to someone else.
Gunfire cracks, sharp and close. It punches the wall an inch from my head, spraying grit into my eyes. My lids slam shut. For a heartbeat, I’m back in the silence. Back in the waiting.
Back in that fucking chapel.
Her breath against mine.
Her voice breaking: You’ll leave me again.
My own lies snarled back: You should’ve stayed gone, Butterfly.
My stomach knots so hard I nearly vomit.
A hand smashes against my chest, jerking me forward. Torres’ mouth is moving, but it takes a second for the sound to punch through the fog.
“Stay with me!”
His knuckles dig into my vest like anchors. My head bobs, useless. My breath comes shallow, whistling through grit.
The ground trembles again. Another explosion, farther off this time. Not enough distance. Not safe.
Something hot streaks past my arm—a tracer, red and quick, burning a hole through the night. My brain stutters, tries to process incoming but it’s all static, all too slow.
Torres jerks his rifle up, firing into the smoke. The kick echoes through the stone, through my bones. Each shot a hammer driving me deeper into my body.
I want to help. Want to raise mine. Want to fight back but my hands won’t close. My vision won’t clear. My chest feels like it’s folding in.
I taste iron. Thick. Wet. My tongue feels heavy in my mouth. My knees buckle, sliding out from under me.
Torres snarls, catching me before I hit the ground. “Fuck no, Kingston! Not like this. Not here!”
He drags me tighter against the wall, shielding me with his body while bullets chip stone above us. His face is smeared, filthy, wild-eyed. But steady.
“Breathe!” he shouts, shaking me once, twice. “You hear me? Fucking breathe!”
I try. God, I try but the only breath I feel—is hers. Whispering against my ear in the dark. Soft. Sharp. Fragile.I want you to stop letting me fall alone.
Torres’ grip is iron, his hands under my arms, hauling me up like dead weight. My boots scrape uselessly against stone, knees buckling, chest seizing.
“On your fucking feet, Kingston!” His voice cuts through the ringing, jagged and furious. “You’re not bleeding out on my watch.”
The wall tears away from my spine and I’m dragged forward, half-stumbling, half-carried. Every step feels like fire lancing up my ribs. The air is thick, choking—smoke curling, grit burning my throat raw.
I want to tell him to leave me. That I’m slowing him down. That I’m already half-dead but my mouth won’t work. My teeth just chatter, jaw clenched against the pain.
The street is chaos—bodies darting, shadows breaking open with muzzle flashes. A Humvee groans somewhere ahead, tires shredded, flames licking the hood. Shouts rip through the night—orders, screams, someone crying for a corpsman that won’t come fast enough.
Torres forces me forward, shoulder under mine, his rifle swinging loose at his side. “C’mon, Doc. Don’t make me drag your ass.”
Doc.
The word stabs deeper than the shrapnel because I’m not a medic. Not the man who saves them. I’m the bastard who breaks minds. Who’s only ever good at pulling people apart, not keeping them whole.
I choke on a laugh, bitter and wet, but it comes out more like a cough. Blood spatters the dirt. Torres doesn’t slow. He jerks me harder against him, lips peeled back in a snarl. “Don’t you fucking quit. Not here. Not now.”
Another crack splits the air—close, too close. He shoves me down behind a low wall, pushing my rifle into my hands. My fingers barely curl around it, but I hold on.
