Achilles Greatsea’s boots grind against the gravel as he strides back to his transport truck, the residue of smoke and ash clinging to the back of his throat. His mind is still locked in the battlefield’s rhythm, the constant awareness that has kept him alive in operations more dangerous than he cares to count. His men are loading up after Operation Trojan Horse, their faces set with the exhaustion of victory. They’re pulling out, leaving the ruins of Hisarlik behind.

As he nears the truck, Achilles’ instincts flare—something’s off. He’s spent enough time in hostile territory to notice the small things: a misplaced shadow, the faint scrape of a boot against metal. Someone’s hiding. Without breaking stride, he shifts his path, angling around to the back of the truck, his senses tuned to any movement.

There. The shadow moves, just a flicker, but enough to confirm it. Achilles reacts in an instant. He lunges forward, grabbing the intruder with one swift motion and slamming them against the side of the truck, his hand gripping tightly around their arm. His sidearm is drawn, the barrel pressed firmly against their side before they even have a chance to cry out.

Achilles’ eyes narrow as he takes in the sight of them—a young figure, covered in dust and grime, eyes wide with fear. Civilian. Not a threat by the look of them, but Achilles knows better than to trust appearances. He’s seen too many ambushes, too many traps laid by desperate hands. His grip tightens.

“Who the hell are you?” His voice is a low, dangerous growl. There’s no softness in his tone, no hint of mercy. He’s already calculating a dozen different ways this could go—none of them good for the stowaway if they don’t give him a reason to let them live.

The stowaway doesn’t speak, but their chest heaves with rapid breaths, eyes darting to the other soldiers moving around them. Achilles watches them, his mind working fast. They don’t look like they’re here to fight. More like someone trying to escape. But from what? Or who?