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.