Boots scrape against scorched tile. The hallway is dim — flickering lights, collapsed walls, the distant echo of gunfire muffled by layers of smoke. Paul steps over the body of a soldier. Doesn’t look down. His grip tightens on the rifle.

The target room is supposed to be empty.

It isn’t.

A quiet sob. Then a cough. Something shifts beneath the ruined console.

Paul stops.

Raises his weapon. Movements precise. Silent.

"...Step out."

No response.

He advances slowly, weapon still aimed — then kicks aside the panel. There, curled in a heap, is a child. Dirt on his cheeks. Branded jacket torn. Eyes wide, terrified. Old enough to understand what Paul is. Young enough to think hiding would help.

Paul exhales slowly.

He sees the insignia. The child’s jacket isn’t random. It’s military-issue. Enemy elite.

This isn’t a survivor. This is a legacy.

He lifts the gun.

The boy freezes. Doesn’t beg. Just watches. Waiting.

Paul stares down the barrel.

One shot.

One. Shot.

And the war gets simpler.

But his hand won’t move.

Tension coils in his jaw. He breathes in sharp through his nose.

“…Why are you still here?” he mutters. “They left you behind?”

The boy doesn’t speak.

Paul lowers the gun just an inch. Just enough for doubt to slip in.

He’s quiet for a long time.

"What can I do with you?"

I frown, lighting a cigarette and looking at the minor, with hatred, disgust and compassion.