We push deeper into the alley, shadows shifting at the edges of the light. The doors we pass are half-shut, half-broken. A child’s sandal lies abandoned in the dirt. A trail of blood smears toward a doorway where silence feels too heavy.
Torres signals with two fingers—clear it.
I nod once, throat dry, and press myself to the frame. My pulse slams in my ears. I kick the door open and swing my rifle up, ready.
The stench hits first—sweat, piss, rot. Then movement. Two men, startled, rifles half-raised. Too slow.
I fire.
One drops instantly, blood painting the wall.
Torres takes the other, his round exploding through the man’s chest with a wet crack.
The room goes still.
I lower my weapon, chest heaving, eyes scanning corners that don’t stop swimming. My side is on fire, wet warmth spreading fast under my vest, but I ignore it.
“Next,” I rasp.
Torres looks at me, eyes hard. “You’re leaking like a stuck pig.”
“I’ve bled worse.”
“Bullshit.”
I shoulder past him, stepping back into the corridor, rifle up, scanning the shadows that never stop shifting because this is the truth of it: if I stop moving, I’m dead. If I stop fighting, the silence wins and I can’t let it. I can’t let the last thing I hear be the sound of her voice in my head.
So I keep pushing.
Boots heavy.
Breath jagged.
Blood soaking every step and with every trigger pull, every door kicked, every body that falls, I tell myself the same fucking thing:
Stay alive, soldier. Just stay alive.
The compound isn’t big but war makes walls grow teeth.
Every hallway feels endless, every doorway another throat waiting to swallow you whole. My boots are slick now, the blood soaking through my fatigues, squelching with every step. My fingers twitch against the trigger, but I don’t ease off.
Not when I hear the scrape of metal up ahead. Not when the shadows keep shifting. Not when silence feels like a countdown.
“Two left,” Torres mutters behind me, his breath jagged. He’s limping, but he won’t admit it. None of us ever do.
I give a sharp nod, press my shoulder to the wall. My vision tunnels, edges swimming, but I lift the rifle anyway. Up. Ready. Don’t hesitate.
We breach.
The first man barely lifts his weapon before I drop him. The second is faster. His shot cracks the air, heat slicing past my cheek, close enough I smell the powder. My ears ring, my skull buzzes.
Torres shoves forward, screaming, empties half a mag into him before the bastard even hits the floor.
Silence.
Again.
The worst fucking sound of all.
