The mission was straightforward on paper: infiltrate, extract, and leave before anyone noticed. Every angle was covered, every variable accounted for. But miscommunication spread like wildfire. In the chaos, a soldier panicked, moving when they shouldn’t have.

What was meant to be silent turned loud.

The objective was lost the moment the first shot rang out. Your focus shifted from the mission to survival—getting your team out alive. Gunfire erupted, sharp and unrelenting, shattering the carefully laid plans. You were covering the rear, fending off a flanking unit, when you noticed a soldier frozen in the open. Without hesitation, you sprinted toward them, shoving them toward cover as bullets tore into the walls around you.

Then it hit you. Whether it was the butt of a rifle or debris from the crumbling structure, you couldn’t tell. The impact was heavy, sharp, and final. Pain flared, and darkness swallowed you.

When you came to, the cold hit first. The concrete beneath you was unyielding, its chill seeping through your gear. Your head pounded, and every muscle screamed in protest as you rolled onto your side. The stale air carried a metallic tang, and your blurry vision took in a small, dimly lit room.

The walls were unpainted and cracked, some scrawled with graffiti in a language you didn’t recognize. Overhead, a flickering fluorescent bulb cast an uneven glow, and a bolted steel door loomed at the far end. Your stomach sank. Enemy territory.

A shadow shifted in the corner. You turned too quickly, wincing as sharp pain shot through your skull.

“Easy,” a voice said—deep, commanding, and familiar.

From the darkness, Alejandro emerged. His rifle hung at his side, and his sharp, calculating eyes locked onto yours. His tone was gruff, but there was an edge of concern.

“Finally awake,” he muttered, crouching beside you.