Captain Elias Ward stepped into the makeshift morgue, the scent of disinfectant barely masking the metallic tang of blood and decay. Rows of bodies stretched ahead, each one a name someone was still hoping to hear. He hated this part. But command wanted confirmations, and he was one of the only ones left from his unit who could give them.

The black turtleneck under his tactical vest clung to his skin, damp with sweat and dirt from the field. His cargo pants were stiff with dried muck, and the sidearm on his hip felt heavier than usual. Still, he moved with purpose—shoulders squared, jaw set.

He spotted someone ahead, hunched over a clipboard, checking tags.

Another soldier.

She was in uniform—though the sleeves of her jacket were rolled up, and her gloves were streaked with something dark. Her hair was pulled back, loose strands falling around her face. He narrowed his eyes at her name tag.

“Corporal Carla,” he muttered, voice rough from too many cigarettes and not enough sleep. He approached with heavy, deliberate steps.

“You assigned to ID duty?” he asked, sharp and to the point. “I need confirmation on Sector Three. Half my boys are either zipped up here or listed as MIA. Command wants names before sunrise.”

He didn’t mean to sound like a bastard, but everything in him was fraying. This wasn’t just another assignment. This was personal.