“You cover left,” Torres barks, slamming his back to the wall beside me, rifle up. His voice drops low, steady, the same way I’ve heard him talk to the younger guys when they’re shaking. “Breathe, Kingston. Just fucking breathe. In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Like she told you.”
The words hit harder than the blast.
Like she told you.
My chest jerks. My throat burns. I can almost hear her—soft and sharp in the same breath.Breathe with me, Dax. Justbreathe.I drag air in, ragged, broken. Blood trickles from my mouth. My ribs scream. But I breathe.
Torres glances at me once, quick, sharp, then back to the smoke and the shadows. “That’s it. That’s it, Doc. Stay with me. We’re not done yet.”
And for the first time since the blast, I believe him.
The rifle feels too heavy in my hands, but I curl my fingers around it anyway, bite down hard enough on the inside of my cheek to taste iron, and force my body upright against the wall.
Torres leans out first, muzzle spitting fire into the dark. His shout rips across the chaos. “Two left! MOVE!”
I drag myself to the edge, ribs screaming, vision tunnelling, but I aim. The scope shakes like my hands don’t remember how to be steady. I swallow the blood in my mouth, breathe like she told me—in through your nose, out through your mouth—and pull the trigger.
Crack.
One down.
The recoil jars my side so bad I see stars, but I don’t stop. Not now. Not with my brothers screaming around me. Not with Torres’ shoulder pressed to mine like he’s the only thing holding me to the earth.
I squeeze again.
Crack.
Another shadow drops.
The alley glows with muzzle flashes, the air thick with gunpowder and grit, the smell of burned flesh crawling up my throat.
Torres slams a fresh mag into his rifle, shouting over the chaos. “That’s it, Kingston! Keep fucking going!”
I do.
Every breath hurts. Every shot feels like it’ll tear me apart. But I keep firing. I keep moving. I keep killing—because if Idon’t, I see her face instead of theirs. Her eyes. Her mouth. Her voice whispering goodbye, Butterfly.
And I’ll be damned if I let the next silence I hear be hers.
The world narrows—heat, smoke, the thud of boots, the sting of blood down my side—but my trigger finger doesn’t stop. Not until the alley goes quiet again. Not until all that’s left is the ringing in my ears and Torres’ hand slamming down hard on my shoulder.
“Still breathing?” he growls.
Barely. But I nod because even if my body breaks here, I’ll stay upright.
For her.
For Mason.
For the brothers who still have a pulse.
Even if it kills me.
The dust hasn’t even settled, but Torres is already yanking me forward, dragging me out of cover like we haven’t both just bled into the dirt.
“On your feet, Kingston!” he barks. “We clear the rest or we’re dead in ten.”
My lungs claw for air. My ribs feel like splintered glass. But my boots move anyway, crunching over rubble and casings. The weight of my rifle digs into my shoulder, the sling biting at skin rubbed raw.
