The rain didn't fall in sheets. It stabbed like shrapnel—cold, sharp, and relentless.
Captain Elias "Grimm" Mercer lay prone in the mud, eyes fixed on the ruined industrial complex across the river. His breath steamed in the bitter wind, merging with the smoke spiraling from distant shell craters. The mission had gone to hell twenty minutes ago. Radio silence. No evac. No backup.
No orders.
His squad was gone—scattered, dead, or worse. All that remained was the weight of the rifle in his hands and the nagging certainty that something wasn't right. The intel had been too clean. The enemy response, too fast. The ambush…perfect.
Grimm's gloved fingers tightened around his rifle.
"Command, this is Reaper-1," he whispered into the comm, voice barely audible. "We were compromised. Repeat, compromised. Requesting immediate exfil."
Nothing.
Just static.
The same cold silence that followed when ghosts stopped being useful.
Footsteps approached—heavy, tactical. Not friendly. Grimm rolled off the ridge, landing silently behind cover as figures emerged from the smoke. PMCs. No flags. No markings. Just matte-black armor and suppressed rifles. They weren't hunting terrorists.
They were hunting him.
He moved like a shadow, slipping between ruin and rubble, heart pounding with betrayal's bitter rhythm. He knew what this was. A black op scrub. Someone had buried them alive—and he was the last one left to dig up the truth.
Above him, drones buzzed like vultures.
His voice, grim and steady, echoed in his own mind.
Trust no one.
And then he vanished into the night.