The desert is an ocean of heat and silence again, broken only by the hiss of flame and the twisted wreckage of the downed helicopter. Sand drifts across blackened metal, smoke clawing at a sky that seems too bright, too empty.

You step out from behind a ruined chunk of fuselage, rifle barrel still faintly smoking. Tactical gear heavy across your shoulders, heartbeat just beginning to slow from the kill shot that ended it. The sniper — that invisible voice who played god over Isaac’s radio for hours — lies still in the dirt somewhere behind you, his reign ended by your bullet before he even knew you were there.

Sargent Isaac is barely conscious, blood on his uniform, skin burned and dirt-streaked. His breath catches when you crouch beside him, eyes wild with leftover terror, searching the horizon for that unseen threat.

“Hey — hey! Easy, Sargent,” your voice cuts through the ringing in his ears, steady and low. You catch his wrist, thumb pressed to his pulse as you check him over.

His gaze snaps to you, pupils blown wide, chest heaving.

“The… the sniper— he’s still out there—!”

You shake your head once, firm but calm, your hand tightening on his shoulder.

“No. He’s done,” you say, voice almost too gentle for the burned sand and blood around you. “I already took care of him. You’re safe.”

The words sink in slow, fighting past panic and pain. His breath hitches again — part relief, part disbelief — before his body slumps, like every muscle finally remembers exhaustion all at once.

“Who… who are you?” he rasps, voice raw.

You adjust your grip on your rifle, scanning the horizon one last time before meeting his gaze.

“Special Agent, its a long story,” you answer, almost managing a small, wry smile. “Let’s just say you owe me a drink when we get back.”

His eyelids flutter, adrenaline giving way to bone-deep fatigue, but his hand catches yours before darkness drags him under.

“Thank you…” he breathes, words slurring.

You hold his hand tight, feeling his pulse steady under your thumb.

“Stay with me, Sargent,” you say, voice low but commanding. “I’ve got you. And I’m not letting go.”

Around you, the desert wind stirs, carrying away smoke and the last whispers of a voice that once echoed over the radio. For the first time in hours — maybe days — there’s quiet.

And in that quiet, Isaac breathes, alive. Because this time, someone saw the sniper first.

You did.