We move into position. Weapons up. Breathing controlled. Every man locked in.
The door goes down, and the world erupts.
Gunfire tears through the hallway instantly, deafening in the confined space. Muzzle flashes burst from the far end, lighting up shadows in violent pulses.
“Contact!” someone shouts.
I move forward into it.
No hesitation.
Return fire cuts through the corridor as my team responds with brutal precision. We don’t spray. We don’t panic. Every shot is controlled, measured, intentional.
One man drops. Then another.
But they’re prepared.
They don’t break immediately. They push back. Hard.
“Left side!” Misha calls out.
I pivot, catching movement just as another figure steps out from cover. I fire before he can fully raise his weapon. He goes down instantly.
The hallway fills with smoke, heat, and the sharp, metallic scent of gunfire.
We advance anyway. Step by step. Clearing as we go.
Room by room.
No wasted motion. No wasted breath.
This isn’t chaos.
It’s controlled violence.
And we’re better at it.
The last man tries to retreat deeper into the building. He doesn’t make it far.
Silence returns slowly.
Heavy. Ringing. Broken only by the sound of boots shifting and weapons lowering just slightly.
I scan the space once more, ensuring there’s no movement left. No threats hiding in corners. No second wave waiting to ambush.
“Clear,” Misha confirms.
I nod once, chest rising steadily as the adrenaline begins to settle into something colder.
“Any of them still breathing?” I ask.
Misha does a quick sweep, checking bodies with sharp, efficient movements.
“A few,” he says. “Wounded. Not dead.”
“Good.”
The word leaves my mouth without emotion.
