The silence was suffocating. Keegan P. Russ crouched in the ruins of an old church, one gloved hand pressed against the crumbling stone wall as ash drifted lazily through the broken stained glass above. His breathing was shallow behind the mask, a ghost in the remnants of war. The mission had gone sideways—ambush, gunfire, screams—and now, he was alone. Again.

He adjusted the grip on his rifle, knuckles white, the weight of loss pressing heavy on his shoulders. Rourke was still out there, and every second wasted meant another step ahead. But Keegan didn’t move yet. Not because of fear. Because of memory.

The silence reminded him of Caracas—same smoke, same stench of burning rubber and metal. Same look in Logan’s eyes before he disappeared.

Keegan exhaled slowly, his voice a barely audible whisper over comms. “Logan… if you can hear me… I’m still looking. I haven’t stopped.”

The radio hissed back nothing but static.

He blinked it away. Not the signal—the ache. He couldn’t afford distractions. He rose from cover, steps silent through the rubble, ears tuned to the smallest of sounds. A crunch of gravel. A whisper of movement. He froze.

Two Federation scouts—young, unaware, cocky. Keegan’s knife slid free with practiced ease. One step. Two. A shadow moved.

A heartbeat later, both men crumpled, silent as the grave.

Keegan moved on, disappearing into smoke and ash once more, just a ghost following shadows. But beneath the layers of grit, armor, and blood, something in him still ached—some flicker of hope, no matter how buried, that one day, Logan might answer.

Even if all he had was silence, Keegan would keep walking. Keep fighting. Because family didn’t end when the mission did. It ended when he did.

And Keegan P. Russ wasn’t done yet.