With that last thought, my mind fully slipped into sleep.
Darkness. Nothing but darkness filled my vision. It was the only thing I could see—thick, suffocating, and strangely still.
"Really? But we're in the forest right now."
A faint voice echoed nearby. Close, yet indistinct. I couldn't place the direction—behind me? No... above.
I opened my eyes.
There, seated casually on a thick branch about two meters off the ground to my right, was a figure. He stared down at me with a tilted head, as if studying something amusing.
I saw the figure and exhaled, my voice tired. "What do you want?"
The figure blinked, then chuckled. There was mockery in his tone, but layered beneath it—curiosity.
"What do I want? I want nothing. You're the one who wants something. That's why I'm here. You called me."
I stared at him for a moment, unmoved. "Then go back. I don't want or need you—not now." Without waiting for a reply, I turned and began to walk away.
"Running again? After calling me?"
I stopped.
Turning slowly, I looked back up at him.
3rd Person POV
"Leave."
The command was sharp. The weight behind the voice cut through the haze like steel—no longer burdened by fatigue, only simmering restraint. In the commander's eyes, the haze had cleared, replaced with controlled fury threatening to erupt.
Without hesitation, he unsheathed his sword with one hand, drawing the blade in a smooth, practiced motion. The sheath remained firm in his other hand—balanced, steady.
The figure didn't flinch. He shifted from his perch into a low squat, peering down at the commander with a knowing smirk. His blade—identical to the commander's—rested across his shoulders, sheath in hand, mirrored perfectly.
"And if I don't?" he asked, eyes gleaming with something between amusement and anticipation.
In a breath, they moved.
Both leapt—blades drawn, wills clashing mid-air. The figure's sword came down in a swift, slanted arc aimed for the commander's neck. In response, the commander's blade shot forward—silent, precise—thrusting for the heart.
Just inches from contact, they countered in tandem. The commander tilted his head just out of reach, the figure deflected the stab with a sharp flick of his sheath.
Their bodies collided in the air, momentum crashing like waves. Without pause, they each twisted mid-fall, flipping to opposite sides in a blur of movement—slashing once more, only to meet each other's blocks.
They landed moments apart—knees bent, blades raised, eyes locked.
Again they charged.
The forest echoed with steel on steel. The figure's style was wild—feral. His movements fast, aggressive, instinctive like a cornered predator.
The commander was different. Deliberate. His attacks carried weight, like ocean swells crashing in rhythmic force. Powerful, relentless.
Strike after strike met their match. Neither gave ground.
Then the figure pressed harder, speeding his assault—only to be met with a sharp kick to the side of his head. He blocked it just in time, but the force still sent him sliding backward several meters.
"Go back," the commander said firmly, lowering his sword and sliding it into its sheath. "I have no interest in playing your games. Your fight is over."
The figure scoffed, straightening.
"Is that what you tell yourself?" he sneered, stepping forward just slightly. "That this is the end? We both know the truth, the moment you accepted them…..you already broke your so-called 'promise.' "
His voice lingered in the air like smoke. As his gaze locked with the commander's once more, he whispered with certainty:
"You'll need me soon."
With that, the wind stirred. Leaves rose, carried in a slow spiral, twisting through the air like ash in reverse. The figure dissolved into the gale—like smoke unraveling. And as it vanished, the world around the commander shifted.
As the foliage cleared, the scene around the commander shifted—revealing carnage.
Corpses littered the forest floor. Most wore black—sleek suits, silk shirts, and the occasional glint of gold chains—silent remnants of a certain kind of underworld, the kind that thrived in the shadows. Some lay face-up, bullet holes cleanly puncturing their foreheads. Others hung from the trees, steel wire drawn tight around their necks, swaying gently in the breeze. A few had been decapitated, their heads lying several paces from their bodies, eyes frozen in final shock.
But the commander's eyes were drawn elsewhere.
Just ahead, near the base of a tree, a man—disheveled, missing an arm—groveled in the dirt, blood pouring from the stump. His face was twisted in terror, tears mingling with filth. His voice, broken and desperate, pleaded for a mercy that wouldn't come.
And standing over him...
Was himself.
Expression cold, clothes bloodstained, a pistol in one hand, a bloodied axe in the other. The barrel aimed directly at the begging man's head. His face—his own—twisted in a familiar, chilling grin.
There was no hesitation.
Bang.
The shot echoed. Then—silence.
No birds. No more wind. Just stillness.
Then, gently—like a ripple breaking across still water—
Knock-knock.
A faint knock, barely more than a tap. followed by a cautious voice.
"Sir?"
The voice felt distant, yet close—real, but somehow not. The commander turned slowly, as if wading through thick water. The world around him began to blur. The cold bite of the forest air, the iron scent of blood, the familiar weight of his sword—all of it faded, unraveling like mist swallowed by the dark.
And then—he woke.
His eyes opened, not with a start, but as if drifting from one layer of reality to the next. The ceiling above him greeted him in silence, tinted a faint crimson from the moon's lingering glow outside the window.
He stared for a moment. The dream was gone, but its weight lingered.
A beat passed before he responded, voice steady.
"I'll catch up later. You and Bravo can get ready first."
✦✦✦
After stepping out of his room, the Commander rinsed his face in the bathroom sink, the cold water grounding him as the remnants of the dream faded into the back of his mind. He no longer carried just his sidearm—his HK rifle now rested firmly in his hands. Echo and Bravo were already double-checking their gear, their movements precise and quiet.
Delta was sprawled on a mattress in the corner, gun still gripped loosely in his sleep. Charlie, not far off, had claimed a spot on the carpet, his head resting on a pillow, one arm draped over his weapon. They looked peaceful at a glance, but both men were light sleepers. The kind that could snap awake the moment a floorboard creaked wrong or a round was chambered too loud.
The Commander turned to Alpha and Bravo. "You two will take the outside. One at the front, one on the side. Rotate as needed."
He paused for a moment, then added, "I'll be keeping watch from the second floor. If anything happens, contact me through the radio. I'll borrow Foxtrot's for now."
The two nodded, no protest, just silent acknowledgment. They ran another check on their loadouts before moving toward the front door. The Commander, meanwhile, quietly searched one of the wooden cupboards, retrieving an old notebook and a pen—worn but usable.
Just as he tucked the items into his jacket pocket, the door creaked open and Echo stepped inside. The Commander, halfway up the stairs, paused and glanced over his shoulder. A simple nod passed between them—an unspoken signal. Go get some rest.
Echo nodded back, his face drawn with fatigue, and made his way toward the back of the house to wash up before turning in.
Outside, on the balcony of the second floor, Foxtrot sat near the railing, his sniper rifle resting across his lap. The Commander approached him from behind, boots soft on the floor.
"How's the situation?" he asked, settling beside him.
Foxtrot didn't turn. "Nothing major, sir. Just a few bats circling in the distance. No movement nearby."
"I see. That's good enough for now. Go ahead and get some rest."
Foxtrot stood without hesitation, reaching for his rifle—but the Commander held up a hand.
"Actually, I'll borrow your rifle and radio for the watch. That's alright?"
Foxtrot nodded and handed over both without question. "Of course, sir. All yours."
In return, the Commander unslung his own rifle and passed it to Foxtrot. "Take this while you rest—just in case something kicks off before we expect it."
The swap was silent and practiced. The radio came next, and as Foxtrot secured the Commander's rifle across his back, the Commander rested a hand briefly on his shoulder.
"Don't forget to rest properly. We need your eyes sharp later."
Foxtrot gave a faint, tired smile. "Copy that, sir."
With that, he headed back down the stairs, his steps slow but steady.
Once he was out of sight, the commander turned his focus back to the task at hand. He moved to the window and settled into position, adjusting the scope on the borrowed sniper rifle with practiced ease. Through the lens, he gave the area one final sweep—quiet streets, faintly glowing windows, and trees swaying gently in the night breeze. Everything appeared still. Nothing out of place.
Satisfied for the moment, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the small notebook he had found earlier, along with a pen. Resting it across his knee, he began writing.
He started with the basics: common terms that could prove useful in the field—help, danger, weapon, caution, enemy, friend. Each word was accompanied by its translation, phonetic spelling, and a brief note on usage or cultural context. A few lines later, he added observations about the local habits, the layout of the city, and anything else that might give his team an edge.
Every few minutes, he paused to peer through the scope again, scanning rooftops, alleyways, and treelines. Still nothing. The silence held.
But he didn't mind. In fact, there was a certain calm to it all—the rhythm of writing, the occasional adjustments to his lookout, and the faint sound of the night beyond the walls. He wasn't just keeping watch; he was preparing, quietly laying down tools for the hours and days ahead.
It was quiet. Not the kind of quiet that unnerves, but the kind that settles. Out here, away from the chatter of voices, the static of the comms, the tension of command—this quiet gave space to think. To breathe. There was a stillness to it that didn't demand anything from him. He didn't smile, didn't let down his guard—but something in his posture eased.
Out there, the world was wounded and chaotic. But here, for a short while, he found clarity. The commander kept watch—calm, steady, and just fine with the silence.