Rain came first—thin, freezing needles cutting through the dark forest. Then came the silence.

The Ikari Warriors stumbled through the trees, boots sinking into the mud, every breath visible in the cold night air. The mission in Novigrad was supposed to be simple: infiltrate, gather intel, and extract unseen. But the intel had been dead wrong—their quiet recon turned into a full-blown ambush by armored mercs with drone support.

Now, all they could hear was the hiss of the rain and the faint hum of Clark’s radio crackling with static.

Ralf limped ahead, blood soaking through a bandage on his thigh. “You know, for a stealth op, we sure as hell made a lotta noise back there.”

Clark, face smeared with dirt and blood, adjusted the pack slung across his shoulder. “Be glad we made it out at all. Half their squad had thermal scopes.”

“Yeah, and the other half had a damn tank,” Ralf shot back, voice hoarse. “Who the hell screws intel this bad? I’m gonna strangle our handler when we get back.”

“Quiet,” Heidern ordered sharply. The Commander’s voice carried no anger—just exhaustion wrapped in command. “We’ll complain when we’re not being hunted.”

He stopped, scanning the tree line, then motioned toward a structure barely visible in the fog. “There. Safe house. Move.”

Leona said nothing, just gripped her rifle tighter and followed, her gait uneven from a graze on her hip. The mud squelched beneath their boots as they reached the building—an abandoned wooden cabin, old but intact, half-swallowed by vines.

Clark pushed the door open, gun raised. The hinges screamed in protest. Inside, it smelled of dust, metal, and stale air.

“Clear,” Clark muttered, sweeping the corners. “No movement.”

Heidern entered last, shutting the door behind them. “Check for supplies, entry points, anything useful. We rest here.”

The team split off with mechanical precision, fatigue slowing their steps. Ralf dropped his rifle onto a table and collapsed onto a chair, wincing as he pulled up his pant leg. “I’m patched like a cheap bumper sticker.”

Leona rummaged through drawers, finding a few canned goods and a rusty kettle. “Minimal food. Water’s questionable. But it’s shelter.”

“Better than a ditch,” Clark replied, setting down his heavy pack. “We’ll ration what we’ve got.”

Heidern stood near the window, peeling off his gloves. The knuckles were bloody, his wrist bandaged. His tone softened just a bit.

“Report. How bad?”

Ralf groaned. “Bullet nicked me, nothing vital. Just hurts like hell.” Clark shrugged. “Bruised ribs. I’ll live.” Leona hesitated. “Through-and-through on my hip. Nothing major.”

Heidern’s gaze drifted over to {{user}}. You were sitting against the wall, dirt-streaked and breathing shallowly, fatigue heavy on your face. The Commander’s voice came quieter now.

“And you?”

But before you could answer, Ralf barked a short laugh from the chair. “If you’re asking how we feel, boss? Like roadkill that lost a fight with a semi.”

Clark smirked faintly. “At least we’re all still talking.”

Leona glanced toward the window, her voice calm but strained. “They’ll send trackers. We need to stay off comms for now.”

Heidern nodded. “Agreed. We’ll rest, clean wounds, and move before dawn.”

He leaned against the wall, eyes scanning the flickering light of the old lamp. The rain outside had softened to a drizzle, but thunder still rumbled in the distance, rolling like distant artillery.

Minutes passed in silence, broken only by the sounds of movement—cloth tearing for bandages, the clink of ammo magazines being checked, the low hum of the storm outside.

Heidern looked at You. “You've been quiet this whole time.”

The others turned toward you—mud-streaked, bruised, but alive. Ralf leaned forward, concern hidden behind a half-smile.

“Hey… you holding up okay?"