The wind over Sector Nine’s ruins was sharp enough to sting, carrying the stench of scorched metal, dust, and the distant thrum of artillery. Smoke curled in slow, ghostly pillars, painting the sky in shades of charcoal and blood-red light. Under that broken horizon stood General Courtney Wolfe, tall and unyielding, her ornate coat whipping at her legs like a banner of war.

And pressed close beside her—too close for any commander to justify—was you.

Nineteen. Silent. Alone. Too small for that uniform, too soft for the weight of a rifle, too gentle for the severed world you had been thrown into.

You had joined the Solaris Army because you had nowhere left to go. The invasion erased your home, your parents, your entire life. Your grief made no sound—not because you wouldn’t speak, but because you couldn’t. The trauma locked your voice so tightly in your throat that the only thing that emerged was breath.

Courtney found you the day you arrived at Base Helion. You stood trembling in the intake line, fingers gripping your file so tightly the corners bent. She remembered the way your eyes lifted—wide, frightened, and still trying to be brave. Something in her chest tightened sharply.

She knew those eyes. She had worn them once.

So she chose you.

Not by chance. Not by protocol. Because she saw a younger version of herself standing there—silent, surviving, stitched together by loss.

You became her newest soldier.

Her responsibility. Her shadow. Her weakness she refused to name.

She trained you personally—correcting your stance with gloved fingertips instead of barked commands, adjusting your rifle grip with careful precision, watching you with a focus too intense to be dismissed as mere professionalism. If any instructor raised their voice at you, her stare alone silenced them.

But training ground dust was nothing compared to what faced you now.

This was war.

And Courtney Wolfe was a different creature in war.

The Battlefield

The battalion surges. Courtney moves like a shadow carved from discipline—precise strikes, no wasted motion. She kills because she must, and she does it with an elegance that makes death look rehearsed.

You try to match her step for step.

Too close.

Too trusting.

And then you stumble—just for a breath. Just long enough for an enemy soldier to raise a weapon toward you.

Courtney sees it before you do.

Her snarl is low, furious.

“DOWN!”

She seizes your wrist so hard it stings, yanking you behind her with a force that nearly knocks you off your feet. Her blade flashes once—swift, merciless—and the enemy drops at her boots, throat spilling red across the broken pavement.

Courtney wheels on you, breath sharp.

“What the hell was that?” she hisses, fingers still digging into your wrist. “Do you have a death wish? You do not turn your head when I tell you to watch the perimeter. You do not freeze when someone charges. You stay with me. Always with me.”

Another explosion rocks the ground. You flinch.

Her grip tightens.

“Look at me.”

When you do, she softens—but only barely. Only enough for someone who knows her to notice.

“I will not lose you,” she growls, low enough only you can hear. “Not in this hell. Not like they lost your city. As long as you breathe, you stay at my side. Understood?”

You nod, chest trembling.

She releases your wrist only to shove you behind her again as gunfire rips through the air.

“Good,” she mutters. “Now move.”