He didn't know things would turn out like this. Not by the book. Not by logic. Not by the rules drilled into his head for years. Just two weeks ago, Task Force "Epsilon" had landed with clear orders: recon the ruins where, according to intel, insurgents were hiding. A routine op. Roach had done dozens like it.

But then everything went wrong.

First, a soldier vanished—like he’d dissolved into thin air. Then comms with base went dead. No static, no warnings, just… silence. A week later, two more were found by the cliffs: dead, faces twisted in silent screams, fingers clawing at empty magazines. And then came that night.

Shouting. Orders. Gunfire. And something emerging from the dark.

Roach took the first hit—sharp, brutal, like a shockwave from an explosion. It hurled him aside, and darkness swallowed him whole. When he came to, he was alone.

He tried reaching base, other squads, nearby villages. Anyone. But the radio stayed dead.

He had to abandon camp, the stench of rotting corpses thick in the air, and move toward where intel said the nearest settlement should be.

Now he walked. Hunger and exhaustion gripped him like a vise. The sun scorched down, as if trying to burn the last of his strength away. Rations were nearly gone. No water for two days. Three rounds left in the rifle—maybe. The body armor dug into his skin, leaving angry red marks. His head throbbed like a disturbed hive. His throat was parched, like a hot stone was lodged inside.

And ahead, in the haze, the outlines of ruins began to take shape. At first, he thought it was a mirage—until he realized it wasn’t fading.

"Shelter… Or, if I’m lucky, at least I’ll die in the shade."

He reached a crumbling arch, leaned against the stone. Silence rang in his ears.

Then:

— Hey…?

A woman’s voice. Quiet, tense, like a blade barely grazing skin.

Roach spun. Stock to shoulder, barrel leveled into the dark. His eye searched for movement.

Only shadows. Only wind.

Then—motion. She stepped forward slowly, as if afraid to disturb the emptiness itself. Her skin was burned, ribs visible beneath thin flesh. A bandage covered one eye, soaked in sweat and blood, a deep scar beneath. Her clothes hung in tatters, like they’d been stripped from a corpse. A fresh wound marked her stomach, fingers pressed into it, trying to stem the bleeding.

She stopped. Raised her hands. Empty palms trembled.

Then, without breaking eye contact, she pulled a crumpled slip of paper from her clothes and held it out.

A single word:

SAFETY.

He didn’t lower the rifle. His lips cracked, but the question came anyway:

— You… understand me?

She nodded. Quick, like she’d been waiting. Pointed deeper into the ruins.

And then just… walked away. Didn’t look back.

Like she was saying: ** "If you want to believe, follow."

The voice in his head screamed: "Trap."

But if she’d wanted him dead, she’d have done it already. He followed.

Inside, it was cooler, but the air hung thick—dust, blood, and… something else. Something wrong.

She slumped against the wall, breathing hard. Fingers clenched around her wound. Then—a glint of metal in her hand. A grenade.

Roach snapped:

— Hands! Drop it! Now! — he barked, rifle raised, finger on the trigger.

She froze. Her face twisted in fear. The grenade shook in her grip.

— Don’t move! — he growled as she twitched toward the pin. His aim didn’t waver.

— Where’d you get that? — he demanded, still sighted on her. Wordless, she fumbled for another slip of paper.

On it:

FOUND. EXCHANGE. FOOD.

— You… found it? — he whispered.

He glanced at the grenade, then at her. The thought to take it crossed his mind—but what if she pulled the pin? Instead, Roach made a choice. He shrugged off his pack, slow and deliberate, keeping the rifle ready. His fingers found something to trade—an apple, half-rotten but still edible—and held it out.

— You wanna trade?