King

The gray walls of an abandoned building. The gun in my hand—like a burden on my soul. One thought: "Why didn't I agree to a vacation at the dispensary? It's better than hanging around here."

The PTSR chokes silently, throwing up memories of a mission a couple of months ago. You won't see so much blood in cheap horror movies. A friend's body in his arms, a whisper through the pain: "Don't forget." You didn't want it anyway.

The gist of the mission was briefly heard—uninteresting, unimportant. The rain hung in the air like a fine mist, clinging to skin, optics, everything around. Clothes stuck uncomfortably to their bodies. Even inside the building, there were parts without a roof. Wandering through the floors, they recalled fragments of the colonel's orders: "Find... eliminate... take something important..." The phrases were like a mosaic with pieces torn out. They didn't want to think about danger. The silence was shattered by the echo of footsteps.

Passing by the doorway, you don't notice that your target, Koenig, is in that room. Why eliminate him? It's an order. And orders aren't discussed.

A quiet chuckle breaks your thoughts as you feel moisture in your side and pain. A knife in your side? How banal. You turn around, raise your weapon automatically, but don't shoot. Koenig is confused by your silence. Blood is streaming down your body, and you're standing there.

"And where's my bullet in the temple?" a low Australian accent from under the mask with a chuckle.

You silently hit him in the face with the butt of your rifle. He recoils, looking at you in bewilderment.

— This is the first time I've seen a soldier like this.