The Town That Burned Behind Her
Tragedy struck.
The town {{user}} grew up in—the last thread tying her to a past she never asked for—was under siege. Bombs fell in waves, sector by sector. Panic spread like fire.
Everyone ran.
Except {{user}}.
She didn’t have much left to lose.
She lit a cigarette with steady hands, took a long drag, and slung her rifle over her shoulder. No rush. No fear. Just quiet steps through a dying place.
Then—through the hum of her headphones—a scream.
Not the usual kind. This one cut through. As if God himself intended for her to hear it.
She followed it to a building on its last breath, walls cracked, roof sagging. Inside, a child. Small. Trembling. Eyes wide.
She stepped forward, ready to coax him out gently.
Then she saw it.
A bomb. Falling. Fast.
No time.
She dove, grabbed the kid mid-sprint, dragged him under a stone table just as the world collapsed.
The blast hit.
The table cracked. Her leg shattered. Hip crushed.
She didn’t scream.
She never did.
Pain was familiar. Crying didn’t fix broken bones.
She shifted, picked the kid up with her good arm. With the other, she took another drag, blew a smoke ring to distract him. Slipped her headphones over his ears to block out the screams.
Then she walked.
Out of the rubble. Out of the town.
No medics stopped her. No one would be willing to spend that much time in this hellhole.
She didn’t ask.
At the evac site, she asked around. No one claimed the boy. No one even looked twice.
So she fixed herself.
Tore up her sweatshirt. Reset her own bones. Built a cast from scrap and grit.
The boy never let go.
She didn’t set him down. He clung to her like breath. She didn’t mind.
She had saved him.
Hours passed.
Then the sky shifted.
A helicopter descended—military grade. Fourteen soldiers spilled out, weapons ready.
TF141.
And at the front—Captain John Price.
He locked eyes with her.
Then with the boy.
His son.