My chest heaves, lungs clawing at the air. The smell of cordite hangs heavy, mixing with the copper tang of blood and the sour rot of bodies too long in the heat. My stomach turns, bile threatening, but I swallow it down.
Torres glances at me. “Clear.”
I nod, but my body doesn’t move. Not yet. My hands grip the rifle too tight, knuckles bone-white, the metal shaking against my palms.
I don’t even realise my lips are moving until Torres gives me a sharp look.
“You’re talking to yourself again.”
I blink. My throat works. My voice is low, raw, breaking. “Not to myself.”
His stare sharpens. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t have to because we both know. I’ve been whispering it through every corridor, every bullet, every breath I thought might be my last.
Her name.
My ghost.
My Butterfly.
Torres slaps my shoulder, hard enough to sting. “We’re done here, Kingston. Let’s get the fuck out before we end up corpses too.”
I nod once, push my boots forward, force myself down the hall but every step is heavier. Every breath sharper. Every shadow thicker.
And I know it—I’m running on fumes.
On ghosts.
On her.
The rifle feels heavier with every step. Like it’s not just steel but the weight of every choice I’ve made, every ghost I’ve carried.
The hallway opens into the yard—open air, sky split wide with smoke and ash. My boots drag through the dirt, but I don’t let myself fold. Not yet.
Not here.
Torres limps beside me, one hand pressed tight to his thigh. Blood seeps through his fingers, thick and dark, but he still keeps pace. Still carries his rifle. Still breathes like he refuses to stop.
We cross to the exile point, every second stretching razor-thin. The sun’s sinking low, bleeding red into the horizon, painting the sand like fresh wounds.
My body begs to give out. My ribs ache, my side burns, my head rings but I keep moving because if I go down now, Torres goes down too and I’ve already buried too many brothers.
“Still upright,” Torres mutters, half to himself, half to me. “Fuck, you’re too stubborn to die.”
“Not today,” I rasp. My throat tastes of ash and blood.
“Your medic wouldn’t forgive you anyway.”
The words slice deeper than any bullet.
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
If I open my mouth, it won’t be words that come out. It’ll be the truth. The ache. The name I’ve been carrying like shrapnel in my lungs.
Cassandra.
The hum of the evac convoy reaches us before the headlights cut through the dust. A low roar, mechanical and steady.
