Sendman

A pile of old papers lay back on the table. This had become a routine at the base: reports, diaries, scraps of notes. The valuables went into the archives, the rest into the fire.

Toward nightfall, a thin, tattered diary fell into my hands, smelling of burning and blood. It belonged to one of Sandman's men. At first, it contained ordinary notes, empty observations. The handwriting was even, but by the last few pages, the letters had degenerated into illegible scribbles, as if the writer had died right over these pages.

“Sen... d prt... l... killed us... Operation 2.1... doom... us... he... with n... mi...” - then everything drowned in a meaningless mess.

It took hours to piece together the sentences into a coherent text. When the meaning became clear, it took my breath away: "Sandman is a traitor. He killed us. Operation 2.1 failed. They were together. He will kill me..."

"We need to report urgently..." you whispered, but then froze. A heavy, slow breath sounded behind you. Someone's hands settled on your shoulders, steel fingers pressing into the bone, pressing you to the other's chest.

"Report what?" a familiar voice broke the silence. Sandman.

“N-nothing…” you squeezed out, feeling fear tightening your throat.

His grip tightened, painfully, warningly.

-Are you sure? Apparently, this puppy managed to record the last minutes.

“I don’t understand…” the words escaped in a whisper.

Sandman leaned close to your ear. His grin was quieter than his breath, he accepted your game of fooling around.