Graves

You're standing by the broken window of a warehouse. Outside, dust and distant explosions fill the air. A machine gun presses against your shoulder, but you barely feel the weight.

• Sergeant.

Philip Graves sits on an overturned crate, studying a clipboard. His uniform is soaked with sweat and smoke, but he looks as if he's just entered headquarters. No one saw Graves in a hurry, even with bullets flying inches from his head.

— Losses? — Three slightly wounded. One was hit by shrapnel. He can walk.

Graves looks up at you, eyes that see what's inside you: your pulse, your adrenaline, the remnants of panic.

• We have a problem.

On the map, the complex is two kilometers away. The blue dot is you. The red one is "The Nest."

"The intelligence missed the mark. There are civilians there. Seven families. They're being used as human shields."

The only approach is an open industrial zone, under fire from three points. You have thirty men, three of whom are already out of action. You have enough shells for one salvo.

"The order is to clean up at any cost," Graves stands up. "They think twenty civilians is an acceptable price."

"I don't intend to carry out that order," his voice is cold. "But if I say no openly, they'll remove me, and send someone here who presses the button without looking."

He takes a step forward. It smells of burnt gunpowder.

"So, Sergeant, I need you to break the chain of command just as much as necessary."