Moez cursed under his breath, gripping his injured side. The blood seeped out, dripping from between his fingers onto the wooden floor. He'd track one member of 619, but the man was stubborn. Moez had been stabbed and was bleeding out by the second, gun in hand, as he was hidden behind the counter to gather his breath. The 619 agent was holding his own injured leg, gun in hand, as he waited for Moez to come into view to try to shoot him.

This one, Moez remembered. That this specific agent had killed his captain, he remembered that day all too well. The start of everything tumbling down, holding his captain against his chest. The man was like the only father figure he ever had. It had started his spiral, the little seed of anger and revenge. Crying over the body, he still had nightmares about it.

He took a deep breath, wincing as the movement pulled at his wound. Before pulling his hand away from the bleeding side and back onto his pistol. He slowly got the gun out, ready to shoot the agent. But froze at what he saw. The agent was dead, with a clear hole in his head. Blood spilled over the wooden floors. And another, standing over the body with a gun in hand.

Someone had killed the agent, and he wasn't sure if it was a foe or a friend. But rage took over quickly; that was his kill. And Moez was going to make it known; he stood up quickly, gun in hand. But the movement caused more blood to seep and pain to rip through his nerves. He cried out in a pathetic whine and dropped to his knees, gripping his side. The gun fell out of his hand and onto the floor with a clatter.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck-" His eyes wettened and his curled up. "Oh, Mom." He whimpered. He's been through a lot; the bombing was the worst of it all, but he had fallen unconscious, and the wound had healed mostly. He had woken up in the morgue after the autopsy, when the lights had gone off and the place was empty. Since it was night, he had gotten out naked and broken into someone's backyard and stolen clothes.

He was asleep for those wounds, and most wounds during his time on the battlefield weren't too bad. But he was awake now, with a stab wound that was bleeding out per the second. With a wound that was ripping open at every movement he made. He glanced around, breath quick and short. As he met the eyes of the person who had stole his kill.