James moved like a specter, his body a blur as he exploded out from behind the wreckage. He was a phantom of death, faster than the human eye could track, a force of nature propelled by raw adrenaline and the combat drug burning through his veins. The world around him stretched, time crawling as his mind processed every detail with perfect clarity the shifting of boots in the dirt, the rise of rifles, the brief widening of eyes as they spotted him.

  They had no time to react.

  With a flick of his wrist, he hurled a grenade straight into the cluster of soldiers sneaking toward the wreck. The explosion was instant. A shockwave of fire and shrapnel ripped through them, engulfing the darkened sky in a sudden, blinding inferno. The screams followed—a chorus of agony as flames clung to flesh, melting skin to bone. Some staggered, clawing at themselves in desperation, trying in vain to smother the fire. Others fell to the ground, thrashing as their bodies were consumed alive.

  Before they could recover, James was already on them.

  His HK416 roared in his hands, the weapon kicking against his shoulder as he fired with surgical precision. Three shots, three bodies collapsed, their lives snuffed out before they even understood what had happened.

  One soldier turned desperation flashing in his eyes only for a round to tear straight through his throat. He gurgled, hands clawing at the open wound, blood spraying in thick, dark streams. He staggered back, falling to his knees as life drained from his body.

  The last man stumbled, his hands instinctively clutching his gut where a shrapnel had ripped through him. He gasped, his breath wet and ragged, staring at James in horror. James didn’t hesitate. He lined up the sights, squeezed the trigger, and put a round between the man’s eyes.

  Execution.

  Clean. Efficient.

  The others—the ones still writhing in agony, engulfed in fire—James left them to their fate. Screaming, flailing, doomed. They were dead already and he had more to kill, and wasting bullets on dying men was a fool’s mistake.

  His gaze snapped forward, scanning for the next target.

  The real slaughter was just beginning.

  James barely had time to react before the Gauss cannon roared to life.

  “Shit.”

  The air itself seemed to tremble as the blast fired. The remains of the Jeep ceased to exist in an instant—shrapnel, twisted metal, and burning debris were sent rocketing outward. The shockwave slammed into James, hurling him across the ruined ground. His enhanced body absorbed the brunt of the impact, but even then, his bones rattled, the force momentarily disorienting him.

  Dirt and dust billowed into the air, a thick, choking cloud of ruin. And then, as if the world itself had been waiting for the moment—

  The sun dipped below the horizon.

  The battlefield was cast into darkness.

  The fires from the wreckage and the still-burning men sent flickering, hellish shadows dancing across the ground, twisting and writhing like specters. But for James? This was perfection. This was home.

  He grinned. This was his domain.

  CRACK. A sniper shot.

  James felt it before he heard it—the shift in air pressure, the microsecond of disturbance as the round sliced through where his head had been moments before. Close. Too close.

  He didn’t hesitate. He dropped low, rolling into cover with feline grace, his movements sharper, faster, perfect under the influence of the combat drug.

  His eyes, glowing faintly with their unnatural blue hue, cut through the darkness like a predator. And there four closing in fast.

  They moved with lethal precision calculated, disciplined, no wasted steps. Their formation was tight, their movements silent. James recognized trained killers when he saw them. He could appreciate their skill, but it wouldn’t save them.

  They were too close for his rifle.

  In a single, fluid motion, his HK416 dropped to its sling as his hand shot to his belt. The Vibroblade hissed to life.

  The first soldier barely had time to react before James was on him. The blade punched through his chest and armor like it was nothing, slipping between ribs and piercing his heart. James twisted the weapon as he yanked it free, the soldier collapsing in a lifeless heap before he could even register the pain.

  The second reacted instantly, swinging his rifle like a club. James sidestepped, the arc of the strike whiffing inches past his face. Before the man could recover, James' blade lashed out, severing his throat in one effortless motion. Blood sprayed over James in a hot crimson arc, the man gurgling as he dropped, hands clawing at the useless wound.

  Two left.

  His mind had already thrown away unnecessary thoughts. There was no emotion, no hesitation. Just the methodical extermination of those who stood in his way.

  Stolen story; please report.

  The third soldier came at him fast, his own combat knife flashing in the dim light. A wild slash aimed at James’ ribs.

  Sloppy.

  James caught his wrist mid-air, fingers like iron around the man’s forearm. With a savage twist, the bone snapped like a dry twig. The soldier barely had time to scream before James drove the hilt of his blade into his temple—hard. The skull caved in with a sickening pop, fragments of bone splintering as brain matter spilled out. The body hit the ground like a ragdoll.

  The last soldier hesitated.

  A fatal mistake.

  James was on him before he could fire. He drove the Vibroblade up under the soldier’s chin, straight through his skull. The blade buzzed violently as it punched through bone, and with a sharp jerk, James ripped it free, letting the final body crumple at his feet.

  Four down.

  His breathing was even, his hands steady. His body was built for this. He was built for this.

  The fight wasn’t over. Not yet.

  James turned, eyes already locking onto his next target. The Gauss cannon operator.

  Then the Gauss cannon fired again.

  James dodged, but the concussive force sent him flying. He hit the ground hard, rolling with the impact. His blade was thrown out of his hand and his sling was broken allowing his HK416 to be lost somewhere in the debris. Before he could fully recover, he heard the whirring of the cannon charging again.

  Move. Now.

  But he didn’t run away, He charged. Straight at it.

  His body was a blur of motion; the operator barely had time to think before James was on top of him. He turned, wide-eyed, his hands moving toward his sidearm. But he was too slow, far too slow.

  James swung his compact shovel like a war axe, caving in the man’s skull with a single brutal strike. Bone, flesh, and reinforced helmet cracked like glass, the body dropping lifelessly to the ground.

  But he wasn’t done.

  James yanked the Gauss cannon, turning it on the sniper’s position. His enhanced vision locked onto the spot, picking out the faintest movement in the shadows.

  A smirk crossed his lips as he overloaded the cannon and fired.

  The blast lit up the night, obliterating the sniper’s perch, sending a massive shockwave tearing through the hillside. Dirt, rock, and metal rained down like shrapnel. James felt the recoil slam through his system, forcing him back, but he dug his boots in, refusing to be thrown.

  Then, silence.

  James took a slow breath, scanning the battlefield.

  Bodies. Everywhere.

  Twenty-two men. All dead.

  But something wasn’t right. His instincts flared, a whisper in the back of his mind—duck.

  James barely moved in time. A sniper round screamed past, the bullet slamming into the dirt right where his head had been seconds before.

  His glowing eyes snapped toward the source, and there he was.

  The sniper had survived.

  James grinned. Game on.

  He darted forward, a phantom in the night, weaving through the battlefield, using the terrain as cover. The sniper fired again—James sidestepped mid-run, the bullet grazing his shoulder but failing to stop him. He reached a large rock, pressing himself flat against it. His heartbeat was steady, his breath even.

  The sniper was good. However James would be better.

  He moved low and fast, closing the gap, then launched himself forward, clearing the last stretch in seconds. The sniper barely had time to react before James was on him, knocking the rifle aside.

  The sniper recovered in record time drawing his blade. So it would be a knife fight then.

  The sniper slashed first. James leaned back just enough to let the blade whistle past his throat, then snapped forward, slamming his elbow into the sniper’s ribs the sound of cracking bones could be heard. The man grunted but countered fast, aiming to drive his knife under James’s ribs.

  James caught his wrist, twisting with enough force to break it but the sniper rolled with the motion, yanking James forward into a knee strike. A good move. But not good enough.

  James absorbed the hit, not even earning a flinch. He pushed forward, faster, stronger, driving his forearm into the sniper’s throat, pinning him against a crumbling wall.

  The sniper struggled, eyes burning with defiance.

  In one swift movement James slammed his own knife into the sniper’s chest.

  A gasp. A sputter of blood.

  James twisted the blade, watching the fight drain from the man’s eyes.

  Then he ripped it free, and the sniper collapsed.

  James exhaled, rolling his shoulders as the last echoes of the fight faded into the empty wasteland. It was over. He had won.

  But the job wasn’t finished.

  His body still thrummed with energy, the combat drug coursing through his veins, pushing him to move, to keep going. He knew the crash was coming—the inevitable toll on his body when the enhancements burned out—but he still had time. And he needed to use it wisely.

  James moved quickly, gathering his scattered gear from the battlefield. His rifle, his sidearm, whatever ammo he could salvage from the fallen. His mind still running at full capacity, refusing to waste a single second.

  Then, he turned to Laim.

  The older mercenary lay motionless, his body riddled with holes, blood soaking into the cracked pavement beneath him. The man had survived the wastes for years, fought through hell, and in the end, a single sniper round had stolen his life in an instant.

  James knelt beside him, silent. He didn’t close his eyes—he wasn’t the sentimental type—but he did reach down, grabbing Laim's hand. He pulled the ring from his finger, tucking it carefully into one of his pouches.

  For his kids.

  James didn’t linger. He rose smoothly, turning toward Aurora.

  She was still unconscious, her breathing shallow but steady and it had improved. Her injuries were still severe, her arm was still broken along with her shattered ankle. But she was alive and she wasn’t dying.

  James had seen enough people on the verge of death to know. Her body was still healing, slow but steady whatever modifications she had, they were keeping her alive.

  Still, she wasn’t in any shape to move on her own.

  James sighed, shifting his stance before carefully lifting her into his arms. A princess carry. He adjusted his grip, making sure to avoid her broken limbs, and then he began walking.

  The road stretched ahead of him, empty, endless. The stars had begun to pierce through the twilight sky, the last embers of the setting sun dying on the horizon.

  James kept moving.

  One step at a time.

  No hesitation. No looking back.

  There was still a job to finish after all.