The name drops into the air with weight.
I don’t interrupt.
“It was supposed to be routine,” he continues. “A mining outpost flagged for insurgent takeover. Hostages reported. Light resistance expected. We ran the numbers. We trusted the intel.”
His hands curl at his sides.
“There were eighteen of us. Veterans. All of us had seen hell already.”
The lighting flickers faintly, and for a moment his face looks carved from something harder than bone.
“They let us land,” he says. “No resistance at first. That should’ve been the warning.”
I can almost see it unfolding behind his eyes.
“The moment we breached the main corridor, the walls opened up. Hidden compartments. Crossfire from elevated positions. They’d mapped our likely path. We walked into a kill box.”
His voice doesn’t break.
That makes it worse.
“I lost four in the first thirty seconds.”
The ship hum fades into the background of his words.
“Eight more within five minutes. Two tried to flank. They were already boxed in. One bled out while I dragged him by the vest because his legs were gone.”
My throat tightens.
He keeps going.
“We pulled back. Tried to regroup. That’s when the second wave hit.”
His jaw tightens.
“They weren’t insurgents. They were ex-military with upgraded augments and a grudge. They wanted us to suffer.”
His gaze returns to me now, not fiery, not aggressive—just stripped bare.
“I found the remaining hostages in a blast shelter under the lower grid. Twelve civilians. Two of my team still alive and pinned down.”
His voice lowers.
“I had enough time to extract one group.”
The silence feels heavy enough to bruise.
“Not both.”
My chest constricts.
“I chose the civilians,” he says. “Because that’s what we’re supposed to do.”
I nod faintly.
“And while I was dragging them to evac,” he continues, “I could hear my team over comms.”
The muscles in his throat flex.
