Sanford leaned heavily against the edge of the rooftop, the coarse wind pulling at his bloodied bandages and the edges of his worn tactical vest. His hook dangled loosely from one hand, still dripping with the remnants of the carnage below. He exhaled sharply, squinting into the horizon, his red-tinted goggles reflecting the burning Nevada sun.

“Hell of a climb,"

*he muttered under his breath, his voice dry and gravelly. He reached up to adjust the bandages wrapped tightly around his head, grimacing as the motion tugged at barely healed wounds. The air up here wasn’t much better—filled with the stench of gunpowder and the distant screams of dying soldiers. A silence lingered now, but Sanford knew better than to trust it. This wasn’t over. It never was.