September 11, 2001. 21:00. Paris.
The city burned, fire stretching all the way to the skyline. Reds and oranges licked the darkness, painting the Parisian night in violent hues. The streets looked like something out of hell—littered with corpses of civilians and Tanwir fighters alike, tangled amid the wreckage of cars and toppled streetlights. Apartment blocks and storefronts stood hollow, their windows shattered, doors blown off their hinges. Smoke choked the air, thick and unforgiving, while the stench of burnt flesh and chemicals clung to every breath.
Sirens wailed endlessly, the grim refrain of a city in ruin. Police and paramedics moved between the wounded and the captured; firefighters fought a losing battle, dragging the living from the wreckage.
Castle stood in the middle of it all, staring at the body of a woman curled over her child. Her stillness haunted him—a brutal reminder of the UNSAF's failure.
He caught his reflection in a pane of shattered glass: a herculean figure with buzzed black hair, beige skin, and eyes dulled by exhaustion. His combat uniform was caked with grime, streaked with blood that wasn't his own.
Around him lay the fallen—friends, comrades, strangers—all claimed by the same chaos. The sirens and screams still echoed, but to Castle, they'd faded to a distant hum.
This was what remained after the clash between the Tanwir and UNSAF—a corporate-funded, multinational special forces unit built from the world's most elite task groups.
The best of the best. What a joke.
All that training, all that funding, and it had ended in a slaughter.
Thousands were dead; countless others carried wounds that would never heal.
Castle had spent hours trying to hold the line, patching holes in a sinking ship—but it was pointless.
Now he stood amid the ruins of Paris, drifting near the base of the Eiffel Tower—surrounded by the ghosts of a city he'd failed to save.
Hours earlier, the landmark had narrowly escaped obliteration. The Tanwir had wired it with explosives, using it as a forward base for their assault—turning a symbol of French pride into a monument of fear.
Now, its legs were scorched, with cables and detonators still strapped haphazardly along their length—a once-majestic presence now overshadowed by the devastation surrounding it.
The operation had been a disaster.Intelligence had been faulty—no, worse, it had been suspiciously incompetent.
Hijacked flights, stolen weapons and chemicals, thousands of terrorists slipping through the border, and Paris's infrastructure rigged to blow.
How in the hell could they have pulled it off without foreign aid?
Castle couldn't shake his conversation with R-1, a trusted friend he had known since before the UNSAF was even formed.
In hindsight, the information they had been fed reeked of half-truths—as if someone had wanted them to fail.
What he had initially suspected now felt more certain than ever, especially after his time overseeing previous UNSAF operations.
Even during the debriefing hours before the mission, Castle had felt a gnawing sense of dread—one that only deepened when he learned the corporations themselves would oversee the operation.
Now he was certain.
This hadn't been a tactical failure.
It was sabotage. But by whom—and for what purpose?
His thoughts broke as UNSAF engineers moved past, hauling deactivated explosives.
Dozens more still clung to the Tower's frame, waiting to be disarmed.
The area had only just been secured, and at their current pace, they wouldn't finish before dawn.
Paris's infrastructure lay in ruins, brought down by an enemy everyone had dismissed as under-equipped—yet their arsenal had rivaled UNSAF's own.
An engineer brushed past Castle, muttering a quick, "'Scuse me, sir."
Castle shifted aside, giving him space. "You're all good," he replied, voice steady though the weight in his chest said otherwise.
Nearby, the remnants of R-Team moved through the wreckage, carrying stretchers loaded with the fallen. R-1 caught his eye as he lowered one of the bodies beside a medic. His movements were sluggish, deliberate—more muscle memory than intent.
Even under the helmet, Castle could see it in his posture: something inside the man had broken.
When their eyes met, R-1 straightened, exhaustion hidden behind the reflex of discipline.
Castle returned the gesture with a brief nod.
"R-1," he called.
The operator stepped forward, boots crunching over glass, shoulders heavy with fatigue.
For a moment they just stood there, eyes locked—the silence between them saying everything the radio chatter never could. For a heartbeat, the chaos around them seemed to fall away.
"How many so far?" R-1 asked at last, voice raw, blood smeared across his gloves—someone else's, not his.
"Too many. I stopped counting," Castle said, tone flat but edged with fatigue. "Civilians, soldiers… we're still dragging them out every minute. The whole city's a slaughterhouse."
R-1 gave a slow nod. "Closest thing to hell I've ever seen." His words faded beneath the wail of sirens and the crackle of distant fire.
Castle didn't respond. He just scanned the scene—UNSAF soldiers escorting survivors, children clutching at their parents, wide-eyed and silent. A recovery team worked to clear rubble near the boulevard, their movements mechanical and spent.
Then something caught his attention: a teenager—brown-skinned, dark hair, loose civilian clothes—standing too still amid the chaos. The kid's eyes darted between the soldiers and the street corners, calculating, not panicked.
Castle's jaw tightened. He nodded subtly in the boy's direction.
"You see that kid?"
R-1 followed his gaze, body tensing. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Something's off."
They both watched the boy move toward the rubble—not panicked, not practiced, but eerily composed, like someone told him what to do. Paramedics and UNSAF teams kept clearing debris, too absorbed to notice.
Time slowed. Instinct took over.
He's one of them.
The boy crouched near the bodies of fallen Tanwir and UNSAF alike. He pulled a compact handgun from beneath his oversized jacket—the motion quick, almost reverent. His face was blank, eyes unfocused, lips moving as if in quiet prayer. He raised the pistol with a steadiness that came from conviction rather than training.
A single shot cracked. A UNSAF soldier folded, blood spurting from his neck. Another spun and took a round to the gut. Screams split the air; confusion spread like wildfire.
Castle saw a flash of metal—the kid snatching a small, weathered detonator from the ground, clutching it like a talisman. Civilians hit the deck as panic surged.
"Shit!" Castle screamed, launching into a sprint. "Stop that kid!"
He hadn't expected another strike—not now. His legs burned, but adrenaline carried him.
The boy bolted toward the Tower, the detonator held against his chest as if it were sacred. He moved like someone driven by faith—fast, erratic, terrible in his certainty—darting through rubble with the desperate grace of a child who believes he's saving the world.
He reached the elevator and slipped inside.
Castle slammed a fist against the doors. "FUCK!" The sound ricocheted. "Radio squads—he's got a detonator! He's heading up! Cut the power!"
"Copy!" R-1 barked, signaling. "We're manual—grapples up, move!"
R-Team snapped into motion. Grappling guns came up; lines hissed skyward, hooks biting into the Tower's frame as operators began their ascent. Other squads took the stairwells or scaled the support beams.
Castle snagged a headset. "All units—eyes only. No shots unless I give the order."
The Tower came alive—silhouettes moving through firelight, teams cutting through smoke toward the boy. Comms spat updates and static.
Castle forced his breathing to steady.
Paris had already burned once tonight. It couldn't survive another explosion.
Most civilians had fled the Tower; a small ring lingered behind police cars and SWAT vans, faces lit by firelight and morbid curiosity.
Castle sprinted to a nearby armoured comm truck and hauled himself into the back. Screens plastered the walls—city cams, drone feeds, the works. Two operators manned the consoles; the rest were deployed on-site. Castle jabbed a finger at the center monitor.
"Eiffel Tower—bring up every camera on that sector, now!"
The operator flipped through feeds. On one, the elevator lurched to a stop—UNSAF had cut power—but the boy had already forced the inner door, smashing the glass and kicking his way out onto the next floor.
R-Team hit that level first, closing in. Castle's throat went dry as he watched.
The boy opened fire as UNSAF tried to close, forcing them behind beams and railings. He ducked into a utility room and slammed the door.
"Get a drone on that room. Eyes on the window," Castle ordered.
An operator launched a micro-UAV and boosted the audio. The feed showed the boy inside, breathing hard, gun trained on the door. A man huddled in the corner; a woman cradled one child and held another close, faces white with terror.
"Shit—hostages," Castle muttered.
The door cracked open and the boy fired, hitting the man in the thigh. Flesh tore; the man collapsed, screaming. The boy grabbed his collar, eyes flat—belief, not hatred. For a split second his gaze flickered toward the children, doubt ghosting across his face before vanishing again.
R-Team stacked on the breach, rifles up, breathing measured.
Castle keyed his radio. "All units—hold positions. R-Team only: on my command, breach." He forced his voice steady. "Subject is armed with a firearm and a suspected detonator. No sudden moves. No flashbangs—too risky. Snipers: hold unless I give the order. Contain and negotiate if possible."
Just when he was about to add the standard request for a negotiator—he froze. He'd forgotten.
The UNSAF negotiator unit had been hit in the first wave: one KIA, another WIA. Civilian crisis teams were hours out with roads and airspace still contested.
Panic slid under his ribs. He swallowed it and jabbed the mic again. "R-1—can you step forward on this?"
R-1 replied, calm but tired, "I can take it."
"R-1, you're live, then. Try to de-escalate—keep him talking. Buy us time."
On the monitors, other squads froze and pulled back. R-Team's silhouettes pressed against the doorframe; for a heartbeat everything went quiet—the hiss of the feeds and the boy's faint whisper—the pause before the next move.
Tension on the ground broke with the thump of an armoured vehicle.
Castle glanced up: a black Militech truck idled at the barricade. The company insignia gleamed in the firelight. Kingston stepped out—tailored suit, slicked-back hair, glasses catching the flames—flanked by armed guards and other executives.
He moved with the casual authority of a man used to being obeyed.
UNSAF soldiers straightened the instant he arrived. Castle felt his jaw tighten; Kingston's calm survey of the scene felt almost clinical.
"Status, Castle?" Kingston asked, flat and condescending.
Castle kept his posture tight. "Subject on the first floor. Detonator. Hostages. Power's cut. R-Team holding."
Kingston adjusted his glasses, his expression unreadable. "Are the snipers in position?"
"Yes. Ordered to hold fire."
Kingston's eyebrow arched as he turned his cold, unyielding gaze on Castle. "They're paid to take the shot if necessary. Let's not waste resources debating morality."
Castle stepped between Kingston and the comm truck. "He's a child, Kingston. You want 'killing a child' trending worldwide?"
Kingston's expression didn't change. He tapped a finger against Castle's chest—an irritating, patronizing motion. "The world's watching, Castle. What matters is results, not sentiment."
Beyond the barricades, a growing crowd of survivors and reporters had gathered. News helicopters circled overhead, their spotlights cutting through the smoke and chaos below. The noise was overwhelming—shouts from the crowd blending with the mechanical drone of rotors.
Fear, anger, and confusion rippled through the mob, each emotion feeding the next.
Castle felt his pulse spike as he surveyed the scene.
Shooting bad guys?
Easy—he'd done it countless times and trained most of the UNSAF soldiers here himself.
But no one was trained for a global stage.
The world was watching, and any wrong move could spark catastrophe—not just for the mission, but for everyone involved.
UNSAF soldiers and local police struggled to hold the line as the crowd pressed closer.
Every camera lens was fixed on the Eiffel Tower, broadcasting the standoff live across the world.
Castle's mind raced.
This couldn't end in bloodshed—not here. Not like this.
Kingston, fed up, shoved Castle aside and stepped into the truck. "Move, Castle."
"I—" Castle balled his hands into fists but fought the urge to hit him. Too many eyes were on them; he had to stay composed. He followed Kingston into the back of the truck to watch the feeds.
On the truck monitors R-Team held position—rifles up but lowered, breaths steady.
Through the truck's speakers and the drone's mic the boy's voice came thin and reedy, trembling like he was reciting a script someone had forced into him. "S-Stay back! I—don't come in! I'll—" He stopped; his lips formed a clipped phrase the drone barely caught, repeated like a prayer.
In the corner, a woman rocked two wailing children; a man lay on the floor, his thigh a dark, spreading stain.
Kingston watched the feed with a pale, indifferent face and reached for a headset.
"This is Kingston to sniper teams—keep rifles on the boy. If R-Team screws up, take the shot."
Fury wiped away Castle's composure. He grabbed Kingston by the shoulder, barely holding back from throwing a punch. "Do you even hear yourself?! That's a FUCKING CHILD!"
Kingston brushed his hand off with a casual flick. His expression didn't change. "Castle, that 'child' has hostages and a detonator that could level half the city. He gave up his rights the moment he picked a side."
"He doesn't know any better! He's wrapped up in some fucked-up pseudo-religion!" Castle's voice cracked with anger and desperation.
"Castle, are you questioning me?" Kingston's tone turned razor-sharp. "Don't forget who calls the shots here. I can pull you off this op and end your career before sunrise."
"You're threatening me?" Castle's voice trembled—half fury, half disbelief.
Kingston almost smirked, then looked back to the screens. "No. I'm reminding you of the chain of command."
Castle drew a slow, steady breath, forcing his tone down. "Alright… I apologize. Just—give R-Team a chance to de-escalate," he said, each word tight with restraint. It took everything in him not to hit Kingston right then and there. He lowered his head in a gesture that felt almost pitiful. "Please, sir."
Kingston considered for a moment, then gave a curt nod. "Of course. I'm nothing if not generous."
On Castle's command, the team flowed through the breach—quiet, every step measured.
The door yielded with a muted crack, dust drifting in the thin beam of light that cut across the room.
R-1 slipped in first, weapon low, movements unhurried.
No shouting, no sudden gestures—just steady breathing and open hands where the boy could see them.
The others followed, fanning out to their positions like clockwork.
In the center stood the boy, frozen. Fear tightened his face; one hand clutched the detonator to his chest, thumb gliding over its scarred surface as if it were something sacred, while the other gripped the handgun tight.
R-1 stepped forward slowly, his voice low and even. "Hey—kid…" He eased his rifle down, keeping the butt tucked to his hip, index finger hooked over the receiver, body language calm. "I'm not here to hurt you."
The rest of R-Team held their positions, tense, eyes shifting between the hostages and the boy. R-1 never wavered.
"We can help you, but you've got to let those people go."
The boy's response came out as a broken chant—half-words, half-script. "—break the machine—cast off—to freedom—" His eyes flicked between the hostages and R-1, unfocused and empty, the look of someone lost far past fear.
Behind him, the woman clutched her children, tears streaking through the grime on her face. R-1 lowered his rifle the rest of the way and set it gently on the floor. He met the boy's gaze and spoke in that same steady tone.
"Kid, what's your name? How old are you?"
The boy's dark eyes darted between R-1 and the hostages, his hand twitching against the detonator.
"Y-Yasir," he stammered, voice cracking. "I'm—ten."
R-1 took one careful step forward.
Yasir's arm snapped up, the gun shaking in his small hands. "D-Don't come closer!"
"Okay, Yasir. Look at me." R-1 didn't flinch. "You've been through a lot tonight, yeah? Nobody's going to hurt you if you do what I ask. Can you put the thing down—slowly—for me?"
Yasir's hands trembled. For a heartbeat he mouthed the same rehearsed line again—then his thumb slipped on the detonator, the plastic clacking against his palm.
A sudden movement rippled through the stack; someone shifted position, and a gunshot split the air.
Yasir squeezed the trigger in blind panic.
The round smashed into a support beam, spraying splinters across the room—wild, untrained, pure reflex and fear.
On the floor, the wounded man kept bleeding as his family watched, helpless.
R-1's voice didn't change. His hands rose slowly, open and visible.
"It's okay. You didn't mean to—you can still put it down."
Castle's chest tightened as he listened to R-1 over the comms. He glanced at Kingston, who showed almost no reaction, eyes locked on the screen. The only sign of emotion was the faint click of his tongue—impatience.
Over the radio, one of the snipers' voices broke through, barely masking their discomfort.
"Permission to disengage, sir? I—he's just a kid. I don't think I can—"
"No," Kingston cut in coldly, pressing the headset closer to his ear. "You're paid to take the shot, so take it if R-Team fails. This isn't a debate—end of story."
Castle's jaw tightened; every instinct screamed to hit him, but he forced himself to stay composed, fists coiled at his sides. Instead, he fixed his eyes on the screens.
Yasir's grip on the detonator slackened. His shoulders shook as he teetered on the edge of breaking down, the weight of everything crashing over him.
"I just… I didn't know what else to do," he whispered.
R-1 lowered himself slightly, keeping his profile small—nonthreatening.
"Can you tell me who told you to do this? Any names?"
"They said—if I did it, she'd come back," Yasir hiccupped. "They said it would fix it. They said—"
R-1 let the silence breathe. He didn't rush. He crouched a little deeper, visor level with the boy's eyes.
"Who, Yasir? Who told you that?"
A muscle twitched in the boy's face. The rehearsed cadence cracked. "Banner people. The ones with the flags."
Behind him, the woman sobbed quietly, clutching her children tight.
R-1 glanced her way, then back to the boy.
"I'm sorry, but they lied to you, Yasir. Look around—there's no fixing anything this way."
The detonator wavered. Yasir blinked between the children, the woman's pale face, and the wounded man on the floor. The script and reality collided; his shoulders sagged, and a raw, broken sound escaped him.
"I—I want to go home," he sobbed. "I don't want to be here anymore."
"You aren't a weapon. You're just a kid." R-1's voice softened to almost a whisper.
"Put it on the floor—gently. We'll get you safe. No one will hurt you, Yasir," he added, taking a careful half-step forward. "Let's fix this together."
Behind him, R-Team held position—silent, disciplined, careful not to crowd the moment. Yasir's eyes flicked between them, uncertainty and exhaustion warring across his face. His fingers trembled over the trigger.
"What will happen to me?" he finally asked, voice cracking.
"We'll take you somewhere safe," R-1 said. "Then we'll figure this whole mess out."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Yasir's hands lowered.
A collective breath swept through the comms. R-1 advanced with slow, deliberate steps, guiding the boy away from the wounded man still bleeding across the floor.
He crouched and drew Yasir into a steady, human embrace—one arm firm, the other easing the detonator and handgun free. Every motion was practiced but gentle: no yank, no rush. He checked for wires, scanned for tamper seals, and secured the device just beyond reach.
The rest was easier: restraints for Yasir, a tourniquet for the wounded man, a blanket for the children.
On the feed, the woman sagged to the floor, shaking with exhausted relief. Outside the truck, Castle watched Kingston's impassive face before keying his mic and issuing calm, procedural orders—medevac, evidence hold, witness control.
Yasir's conditioning was cracked but not gone. Between hiccupped sobs, he muttered fragments of the old script. R-1 stayed beside him, quiet and steady, keeping the boy anchored until command could arrange custody and child services.
Castle leaned against the truck, exhaustion pressing down as the adrenaline drained from his body.
The aftermath blurred together—UNSAF soldiers escorting Yasir out, his small frame dwarfed by armoured operators; the woman and her children following close behind as paramedics rushed to treat them and the wounded man. The faint chatter of reporters and the snap of camera shutters filled the air like static.
Kingston, flanked by corporate executives, stepped forward to face the media. The crowd erupted with questions, flashes bursting across the scene. Castle stayed back, watching the performance unfold. The mission was technically complete, but this wasn't victory—it was theatre.
To his relief, R-Team returned, shoulders sagging under fatigue.
For the first time that night, R-1 removed his helmet, revealing the soft, drawn features of a young blonde German man. Sweat darkened his hair; his expression carried both exhaustion and restrained fury.
The rest of the team sat nearby in silence, coming down from the fight, but R-1's focus never left Castle.
He straightened, voice steady despite the turmoil in his eyes. "Permission to speak plainly, sir?"
Castle nodded, forcing himself upright. "Granted."
R-1 broke the silence first. "Austin, what the fuck was this all for?" he muttered, dropping the formality that usually stood between soldier and friend.
A long breath escaped the older man; the weight of command seemed to slide off his shoulders. "Noah, I'll be honest—I don't know anymore. This whole night feels like a shitty dream."
"It just feels… pointless." Noah leaned back against the cracked wall, staring into nothing. "We signed up to make a difference, but all we did was watch people die," he said quietly. "A city's in ruins, the corps don't give a damn, and everyone else just… suffers. And we still don't even know how the Tanwir got their gear."
Rubbing a hand over his face, Austin hesitated before replying. "You're right—and they couldn't have done this alone. Part of me wants to say this was a setup, like it's—" He stopped mid-sentence as realization hit.
His eyes widened, shifting toward the executives basking in the spotlight.
Memories flickered: Tanwir operatives armed with corporate rifles, missing intel packets, command overrides from Arasaka and Militech before the op.
He figured it out.
When Austin spoke again, his voice was quiet but burning with fury. "A damned marketing scheme…"
Noah met his eyes, and the same conclusion hit him like a hammer. They didn't need words; years of working together filled the silence.
"Oh… fuck no…" Austin growled, already moving. He signaled for Noah to follow, fatigue forgotten.
The truck, now emptied of operators, felt cavernous and cold. The only sound was the low hum of its idle systems.
Austin dropped into a seat at the terminal, fingers flying over the keyboard.
Search results flooded the screen almost instantly.
Noah leaned in, reading aloud, his voice rising with every headline.
"'UNSAF: Tragic Heroes Without Enough Resources.'"
Austin scrolled.
"'Nations Grant Corporations Additional Funding and Freedom of Expansion for National Security.'"
Another flick of the mouse.
"'Corporation Market Values Skyrocket to New Heights.'"
Noah stopped.
Silence filled the space—thick, heavy, suffocating.
The glow of the monitors painted their faces in cold blue light. Both men stared at the headlines, fury and disbelief settling in equal measure.
After a long pause, Austin finally spoke, voice edged with bitter understanding.
"And we were the pawns. Convenient."
The words hung in the air. Realization pressed down like a physical weight—anger, guilt, and helplessness twisting together until it was hard to breathe.
Austin's fists tightened as his gaze drifted toward the executives outside, still basking in the cameras and applause. For one brief, dangerous moment, he imagined walking out there with a gun and ending it—and he knew Noah was thinking the same.
But it wouldn't matter. The damage was done.
The corporations had already won.
Nothing they did now could undo what had happened.
Noah let out a low growl, then sighed, leaning his head back against the truck's metal wall. "What'll you do now, Austin? What's next? I doubt the UNSAF will be around much longer."
Austin turned to him, voice barely above a whisper. "I'll stay until they shut us down. After that? I don't know—probably head home. You've never met my family, but I've got a wife and daughter waiting for me."
"Oh?"
"My wife—she's beautiful," Austin said, a small, weary chuckle slipping out. The shift in tone was fragile but real. "And my daughter… she's special. Fast reflexes, sharp senses, quick learner. The doctors say she's gifted. I just want to see her grow up."
Noah met his friend's tired smile. "Ha… she takes after you. Toughest man I know. And I always wanted to visit Canada someday."
"You're always welcome, Noah. I'm only a phone call away."
"Much appreciated."
"What about you?" Austin tilted his head slightly. "What do you plan on doing?"
"I don't know, perhaps go on vacation," Noah admitted, his gaze hardening. "But I know this isn't… over. I have no intention of joining the corporations in whatever future they want."
"How do you plan on doing that?"
"I'm done being their tool," Noah said firmly. "I don't know how or when, but I'll fight back. One day, they'll regret using us—all of us. It doesn't matter if it takes a year or decades. I'll find a way."
Austin smiled—a mix of pride and quiet hope. He knew better than to try to stop him.
Maybe, just maybe, Noah really could make a difference someday.
Noah returned the smile, a silent understanding passing between them.
"Anyway," he said softly, "for now, I just want to rest. I wish you the best, wherever you end up."
"Agreed—and likewise, Noah. Good luck; I think you'll need it."
They exchanged one last handshake before parting ways, neither sure if they'd ever meet again.
Everything blurred after that. Hours slipped away in a haze of movement and exhaustion.
Across the perimeter, R-Team and dozens of UNSAF soldiers gathered in uneasy silence. Conversations were hushed—some talked about quitting, the weight of the night finally breaking through their composure. Others said nothing at all, staring blankly into the smoke-filled distance.
One by one, each team was loaded into armoured trucks and sent out of the city to rest—or at least try to.
Austin stayed behind, watching as the last silhouettes disappeared into the hulking transports.
In stark contrast, the executives lingered under the floodlights, basking in the attention. Their words rolled off their tongues with rehearsed precision, shaping tragedy into narrative, narrative into profit.
The crowd—desperate for something to believe—swallowed every lie without question. The world was already moving on from the so-called "terrorist plot."
Should he be moving on too?
Austin stared at the media swarm, exhaustion dragging at his limbs. With a slow, weary sigh, he lowered himself onto the cracked asphalt, elbows resting on his knees.
The adrenaline was gone, leaving only the ache and the questions.
Moving on was something Noah simply couldn't do—that much Austin knew. But he also knew he wasn't built for that kind of fight anymore.
The fire that used to drive him had long since burned down to embers.
At nearly forty, he had a wife and daughter waiting for him at home. He loved them more than anything, but that love had changed him. It left little room for rage or rebellion, and even less for impossible wars.
By contrast, Noah still had the time—and the fury. Talent, youth, conviction, and that raw edge of anger that hadn't yet hardened into resignation.
How far that would carry him… Austin couldn't say.
The night finally went still, yet all he could think about was his family.
Would they be proud of him—or ashamed of what he'd done in the name of duty? Could he tell them the truth, or would he let the lie stand—one more silence in a world already full of them?
He didn't know.
All he knew was that he wanted to go home.