The air was thick with dust and the smell of burned concrete. Every breath burned in the lungs like smoke, every step sounded too loud in the silence that followed hours of bombardment. The city around looked like a scorched shell, walls without roofs, glass shattered into thousands of small fragments that crunched under heavy boots.

Price moved in front, holding his rifle high, ready at any moment. There was no hesitation in his movements, only cold precision. His eyes scanned the ruined corridors, the traces of fire, the shadows that could be people or illusions.

Soap moved a few meters to the side, his bandaged arm pressed against his chest. The wound was old but every motion reminded him of it with sharp pain. Still, he went on, silent, jaw clenched, focused on his sector. Dust covered his arm and face, giving him the look of a statue.

Gaz secured the rear, weapon ready, gaze sharp. He searched for signs of life, vibrations in the dust, a flicker of movement between the ruined walls. Each of his steps was quiet and calculated.

You walked just behind him, sweeping the area with the barrel of your rifle. Your heart beat steadily, trained, but beneath that military rhythm there was unease. The silence after the shelling was worse than the explosions themselves, filled with what could still come.

You entered a room with a collapsed ceiling. Bricks and metal lay in chaotic piles. Light poured through a hole in the wall, creating uneven gray stripes.

Then you heard it. A sound barely audible, soft, unreal in that place. Not a soldier’s voice, not a cry. Something fragile, defenseless. A faint whimper.

Gaz turned his head and you froze. The sound came from under the rubble, somewhere between an overturned desk and what remained of a wall. You moved closer, your steps careful, making sure not to shift anything that could bring the rest of the structure down. Dust rose with every movement.

There, among scraps of fabric and shattered wood, was a cradle. Small, worn, almost entirely covered in ash. Inside, wrapped in a gray blanket, was a baby. Its cheeks were dirty, eyes barely open, but it was alive. Breathing.

The silence grew even deeper. Even the wind seemed to stop, as if it knew that what you found did not belong to this world of fire and steel.

Price stood motionless at the entrance, rifle still in hand, his gaze fixed on the child. Soap ran his good hand over the bandage, looking toward the cradle, and Gaz knelt beside you, slowly brushing away the rubble so as not to wake the small life too abruptly.

In the ruins filled with death, in the burned air, a breath had survived. Small, fragile, but loud enough to remind everyone that even in war, something could still live.