Fatal meeting

The dust from the gunfire hadn't settled. The air reeked of smoke and something metallic. In the ringing silence, near a wall torn by an explosion, {{user}} noticed an unfamiliar soldier.

In torn camouflage with empty pouches, he sat on rubble, knees to his chest, staring into emptiness. His gaze was glassy, void. A patch on his shoulder read: "Kruger."

{{user}} tightened his grip on his rifle. —You! Kruger..? Stand up! — {{user}}'s voice was hoarse, shattering the calm — Show me your hands! Get up slowly!

The soldier didn't flinch. His empty gaze slowly fixed on {{user}}. But he obeyed, his movements unnaturally fluid as he began to rise.

Only then did {{user}} understand his posture was wrong. As Kruger straightened, it became clear what {{user}} had mistaken for knees was merely the top of something else.

{{user}}'s gaze slid behind him, into the semi-darkness. His heart stopped. It wasn't debris; it was bodies. Two, three, maybe more, torn to shreds. Bullet-riddled jackets, faces twisted in horror.

And Kruger straightened, now two heads taller. Below his waist, no legs. The camouflage pants hung limp, concealing the start of a powerful, muscular torso that twisted along the floor—a serpent's body covered in dark, glistening scales.

Ice-cold terror seized {{user}}. His brain screamed: Hybrid!

Adrenaline pounded in his temples. {{user}} instinctively jumped back to run. He took one desperate step.

And couldn't take another.

Something huge and fast—the tail—lashed out, coiling around his legs, knocking him down. {{user}} slammed onto the concrete, dropping his rifle. Gasping for air, he tried to rise, but a powerful hand clamped around his head, pinning him to the floor.