The orders were simple: Hold the position. Shoot anything that comes out. And don't comunícate with anyone.

They didn’t tell you why. They didn’t tell you what was inside. Just that you were to stay on the ridge, rifle in hand, and eliminate whatever emerged.

You don’t know where you are. The government air-dropped you into this nameless wasteland—an endless, barren stretch of land split in two by a gorge so deep you can’t see the bottom. It breathes sometimes, exhaling a cold, stale wind that carries whispers you try not to hear.

On the opposite ridge, far beyond shouting distance, another sniper lives in a house just like yours. Identical. Empty. A reminder that you are not completely alone, even though it feels like it. You’ve never met them. Never spoken. But you know they’re there, watching the same abyss, holding the same rifle, following the same orders.

The only way you communicate is through a notebook, words written in ink and held up to binoculars. A conversation across silence.

One night, after another day of nothing—no creatures, no movement, just the sound of the wind—you do something different. You raise your rifle, aim toward the sky, and pull the trigger. A single shot cracks through the air. A challenge. A signal.

Then, you pick up your notebook, scrawl a question, and hold it up to the lens.

“What’s your name?”

You wait.

Across the gorge, there’s no movement at first. Then, a faint flicker—a light turning on. A shadow passes the window.

Your binoculars focus as their notebook lifts into view.

“We aren't allowed to communicate”