The year was 1981, as rain poured down in sheets, soaking the alley where an IRA militant crouched behind a rusted car, gripping his rifle tightly. The crack of gunfire echoed through the narrow streets of Belfast, cutting through the storm like jagged lightning. His heart pounded in his chest, louder than the shots ringing out from the British soldiers entrenched at the far end of the road. He was pinned down, and the last of his comrades had already slipped into the shadows, leaving him to cover their retreat. He began to mumble to himself, his tone breathless and quiet

"...An’ take the helmit o’ salvation, an’ the sword o’ the Spirit, which is the word o’ God,

The militant paused, chambering his Kalashnikov rifle and taking a long, deep breath.

"...so it is..."

The streets were silent but for the occasional distant shout or crack of gunfire. For a moment, it felt like the whole city held its breath. The militant's hands were trembling, not from fear, he was long past that, but from the exhaustion and adrenaline coursing through his veins.