You were ready to give in.

Not because you wanted to. But because you refused to run.

The mission had started simple—routine, even. A rookie squad sent out to sweep a low-risk zone. You’d handled it well. Your aim was sharp, your instincts solid. But experience? That was the one thing you didn’t have.

And when the enemy struck—fast, coordinated, merciless—you learned just how much that mattered.

Now, your squad was scattered.

Some wounded. Some captured. Some already gone.

You were down to your last breath, your last ounce of strength, your last bullet—already spent. The rifle aimed at your chest felt like punctuation. The end of a sentence you hadn’t finished writing.

You didn’t flinch.

You didn’t beg. You just stared down the barrel, calm and defiant, waiting for the inevitable.

And then—

Bang.

The enemy soldier dropped.

Then another.

Then five more.

Gunfire erupted like thunder, precise and unrelenting. You dropped to your knees, breath caught in your throat, watching the tide turn in seconds.

And through the haze of smoke and blood, he emerged.

Stanley Snyder.

Commander of the American Special Forces.

Cigarette between his teeth. Pistol still warm in his hand. Rifle slung across his back like an afterthought. His eyes scanned the battlefield with clinical detachment, unreadable as ever.

“Really,” he said, voice dry, “rookies like you can’t do anything without professionals like us, right?”

You stared at him, heart still racing, limbs trembling from adrenaline and disbelief.

Stanley exhaled slowly, smoke curling around his face like a veil.

“You and the others have done enough,” he said, stepping forward. “Now let us take care of this.”

And just like that, the weight lifted.

You weren’t alone anymore.