The first rays of dawn cut through the gray clouds like a blade, casting a sickly hue across the landscape. The rain had finally stopped, leaving the air thick with the smell of wet earth and burning ruins. Grimm sat in a shattered building, eyes locked on the distant horizon, trying to steady the rapid beat of his heart. His clothes were soaked through, mud caked in the seams of his tactical vest, but he didn't feel the cold anymore. He didn't feel much of anything.
His squad was gone. There was no sugarcoating it. He'd lost good men—brothers—and now, he was alone in a world that had turned its back on him. The mission had been a setup from the start, a betrayal disguised as an operation.
Mercer adjusted his grip on the rifle in his hands, feeling the familiar weight of it. It had been his constant companion for years. It had saved his life more times than he could count. Now, it was just a tool. Another reminder that he had nothing left but the fight. And that was something he knew how to do.
The silence was broken by a sudden crackle on his comms. Grimm tensed, hand instinctively reaching for the device at his side. His pulse quickened.
"Command, this is Reaper-1," he said, voice hoarse but firm. "Still on the ground. Requesting an update."
There was a long pause, the silence stretching like a noose. Then, a voice came through—grainy, distorted.
"Mercer. It's not over. We… can't help you."
The words hit harder than any bullet. The finality in the tone, the cold indifference. It wasn't just the mission that was scrubbed. He was now a ghost. No backup. No evac. No extraction.
He exhaled sharply, running his fingers through his wet hair. "Figures," he muttered under his breath, then cut the comms. There was nothing more to say.
Grimm wasn't going to wait around to be caught. He'd spent enough time playing the good soldier, following orders, trusting the system. It had gotten his team killed. He was done with that life.
A distant rumble echoed in the sky, and Grimm looked up just in time to see the silhouette of a drone—silent, ominous—circling above. The buzz of its rotors sounded like a predator hunting its prey. He knew the drill. Stay low. Stay hidden.
He moved quickly, slipping through the crumbling structure, his boots barely making a sound against the broken concrete. His eyes scanned the area, searching for any sign of movement. He couldn't afford to be caught off guard again.
But as he neared the edge of the building, he froze.
A figure stood in the shadows, watching him. A flicker of recognition sparked in his chest.
"Grimm." The voice was soft, but there was no mistaking the accent. Russian. Cold. Deadly.
He didn't need to look twice to know who it was. Tanya Volkova. The sniper. The one who had gone rogue.
"Valkyrie," Grimm said, his tone flat. "I thought you'd be long gone by now."
Volkova stepped forward, her movements deliberate and precise, like a predator sizing up her next kill. Her eyes, dark and calculating, never left his.
"I could say the same about you," she replied, her lips curling into a smirk. "But then, you always were stubborn."
Grimm narrowed his eyes. "What are you doing here?"
"Same as you," she said, her gaze flicking to the distant smoke. "Trying to stay alive."
He didn't trust her. Not completely. But he didn't have much choice. She was one of the few left in this hellhole who might know something about what went wrong.
"You know what's going on, don't you?" Grimm asked, his voice low.
Volkova nodded, her face hardening. "It's not just you they want dead. This... this is bigger than a botched op. Much bigger."
Grimm's stomach turned. He'd suspected as much. But hearing it out loud made it all too real. Someone was pulling the strings, orchestrating this entire disaster. And whoever they were, they weren't going to stop until they wiped him off the map.
"Who?" Grimm demanded.
Volkova's eyes flicked to the horizon, where the first rays of sunlight were piercing the smoke. "I think you already know."
Before Grimm could respond, the sound of boots crunching on broken glass echoed from behind them. He tensed, instinctively reaching for his rifle. Volkova did the same, her hand moving toward the sniper rifle slung over her shoulder.
A voice rang out, harsh and distorted. "Move, Reaper. You're not the only one who wants answers."
Grimm's heart skipped a beat. The last voice he ever wanted to hear.
"Razor," Grimm muttered under his breath.
The enforcer's footsteps drew closer. He wasn't alone. More of Kessler's men were moving in from all directions.
"Valkyrie," Grimm said quickly, meeting her eyes. "We need to move. Now."
But Volkova's gaze didn't falter. "You don't have much time, Grimm. They won't stop until they find you."
Grimm nodded, tightening his grip on his rifle. He wasn't about to go down without a fight.
And for the first time in a long time, he felt a spark of something—rage, defiance, and maybe even a little hope.
"You're right," he said, voice steady. "Let's make them regret it."
The battle for survival had only just begun.