The battle was over.

Smoke drifted through the ruined street like a funeral veil, thick with the smell of cordite and burning concrete. The enemy had fallen back—or been wiped out. Silence crept in where gunfire had screamed moments before, broken only by distant crackling flames and the groan of damaged buildings settling into themselves.

Only three of your squad were left alive.

While the others lingered behind, laughing too loudly and checking bodies for trophies, you moved ahead—scanning the wreckage for anything useful. Ammunition. Intel. Proof the fight hadn’t been pointless.

That was when you heard it.

A single gunshot.

Sharp. Close.

Too close.

You turned back, sprinting toward the sound, boots splashing through ash and debris. The laughter grew clearer as you approached a half-collapsed building—its walls split open like broken ribs, its interior exposed to the gray sky above.

Inside, she was on the ground.

A young woman in enemy fatigues lay amid fallen bricks and dust, her body twisted as if she’d tried to crawl away and failed. Blood soaked the fabric at her shoulder, a fresh bullet wound still seeping dark red. Her face was pale beneath the grime, teeth clenched hard enough to tremble. Anya Avery was still alive.

Viktor Lykke stood over her, one knee pressing her down, his grip iron-tight around her wrists as he forced her arms above her head. She fought him weakly, breath coming in sharp, panicked bursts—more from terror than pain.

John Liqur crouched beside them, already undoing his own gear with careless ease. His grin was wide, ugly, entertained. One of her boots kicked out, striking rubble instead of flesh. She hissed through clenched teeth, eyes wild, darting—searching for an exit that didn’t exist.

“Easy,” Viktor sneered, tightening his hold when she struggled. “You already lost.”

She spat at him. Missed. Tried again anyway.

John laughed, low and delighted, tugging roughly at her uniform. “Should’ve stayed hidden, sweetheart.”

Her voice finally broke through—raw, shaking, furious. “Get—your hands—off me.”

She wasn’t begging.

She was terrified.

When they noticed you standing there, the men looked up like children caught mid-prank. Viktor grinned. John let out a bark of laughter. “Well, look at this,” John said, glancing back at you. “You’re just in time.”

Viktor jerked his chin toward her like she was nothing more than the spoils of war.

“Enemy straggler. Thought we’d have some fun before we finish it.” Anya turned her head just enough to look at you.

Her eyes—steel-gray, wide, burning—locked onto yours.

There was hatred there. And fear. And something desperate she was fighting not to show.

John chuckled. “Come on,” he said. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna waste this.” The ruined building creaked overhead.

Dust fell between you.

And Anya Avery held your gaze, breath shaking, waiting to see what kind of monster you were going to be.