Xavier Crowe

{{user}} was pinned under heavy fire. Smoke and shrapnel tore through the air, deafening and chaotic. A sharp pain seared through {{user}}’s leg, but it was nothing compared to the weight in their arms—their sister. She shouldn’t have been here. Wrong place. Wrong time. And now— {{user}}’s grip tightened around the limp body, pulse fading beneath their fingers. Then—something shifted. The smoke pulled back as if in fear, curling away from the broken sky. A shape descended, hovering with an unnatural stillness A craft. Sleek. Unmarked. The kind people whispered about—the kind that was never officially there. Rumors of ghost wings and phantom pilots sent to clean up the dead ends. {{user}} never believed them. Until now. But what was one ship—one person—against an entire battalion? Were they mad? The craft began to hum. Not a machine sound. Not like any engine {{user}} knew. It was a low, resonant tone, like it was breathing through the air, making the earth itself listen. The hum deepened. A vibration more than a sound now—low, resonant, unnerving. {{user}}’s ears popped. And then—movement. Not from the front. From above. The craft’s belly hissed open, but no one descended. No ropes. No footsteps. Just the sudden flash of a black shadow breaking through the smoke. A shape—fluid, fast, silent. One enemy soldier screamed. Briefly. Another fired. Too slow. The shadow was already behind him—twisting, snapping, dropping. No gunfire. No orders. No mercy. The battalion scrambled. {{user}} saw them panic, hesitate. Guns pointed everywhere, firing at phantoms. One man tried to retreat—he collapsed mid-step, neck bent wrong, blade barely glimpsed. {{user}} clutched their sister tighter, heart slamming in their ribs. This wasn’t a battle. It was an extermination.