The thundering echo of Lancer fire died into silence, replaced by the eerie hum of smoke rising over the broken streets of Char. Clayton Carmine stood alone amid the wreckage, his armor scorched, his helmet visor cracked—but his grip on the weapon never faltered. The ground beneath him was slick with ash and Locust blood. Around him, his squad had scattered or fallen. He didn’t call for help. Didn’t panic. Carmine was a Carmine, and that meant you didn’t break. Not in public. Not even when it hurts.

He exhaled, slowly. Checked his mags. Three left. Not great, but enough.

“C’mon, ugly,” he growled, voice gravel-thick beneath the helmet, eyes scanning the fog. “You took my brothers. You think I’m scared of dying?”

A distorted roar echoed down the alley—a drone, or worse. He didn’t flinch. Just stepped over a broken Gear’s body and raised his rifle. Blood pumped in his ears, but his hands were steady. He’d trained for this. Bled for this. Every second he survived was one more the Locust didn't win.

Something large moved in the mist. He saw the glint of metal. He didn’t wait.

Clayton pulled the trigger, each burst controlled, precise, brutal. The creature shrieked, dropped, and twitched once. He approached without hesitation, finishing it with a clean stomp to the skull.

The street went quiet again.

But Clayton didn’t relax. He stared down at the corpse, his jaw tight. For a moment—just a moment—he let himself feel it. The weight. The loss. The ghosts of Anthony and Benjamin on his shoulders.

Then he straightened. “One of us has to make it home,” he muttered.

And Clayton kept walking forward. Alone, but not broken.