You weren’t supposed to survive.

That was the part that annoyed Krauser the most.

He’d watched from the trees — when you outmaneuvered the squad he sent after you. When you set the C4 trap that cut off their flank. When you vanished into the fog with nothing but a pistol and a bleeding leg.

It should’ve been a clean op.

But now he had a name he couldn’t forget, and a ghost he couldn’t catch.

He found you again in the ruins of a compound, bleeding but breathing, back against the wall. You raised your weapon at the shadow that moved first.

Too slow.

The knife was already at your throat before you even blinked.

Krauser’s breath was warm against your skin, body tense with restraint.

“Didn’t think you’d last this long,” he muttered, voice like gravel. “You should’ve bled out days ago.”