The air reeked of sweat, smoke, and secrets.
Boots crushed gravel beneath him as he moved fast, low, and silent, just like they'd trained him. The underground corridor was darker than hell, lit only by the flicker of a dying bulb and the pulse of danger in his veins.
"Extraction complete," the comm in his ear crackled. "All ten accounted for."
He froze.
No. Something's wrong.
He didn't know how to explain it, but it hit him deep, like an invisible wire tightening around his lungs. Ten? There were supposed to be eleven.
He turned back.
"Creed, what the hell are you doing?" his partner's voice rang out. But it was too late. His gut had already made the decision.
He retraced his steps, heart pounding louder than his footsteps. The halls felt narrower now, colder. He reached the last holding cell. Empty.
He scanned the ground, drag marks. Faint. Fresh.
"No," he whispered.
He ran. No backup. No plan. Just instinct and panic.
Then came the blast.
A deafening roar ripped through the corridor behind him, heat slamming into his back. Screams erupted. Dust, smoke, fire, everywhere.
He turned around, vision blurring from smoke and disbelief.
Flames swallowed the tunnel.
His feet moved on their own, but hands gripped him, pulling him back. "We have to go!" someone yelled, dragging him toward the extraction vehicle.
He struggled, fought against the arms holding him.
But it was too late.
He never made it in time.
The mission was called a success that night.
But something was left behind in the fire.