#Hash

The wind blew through the empty floors of the abandoned shopping center, causing the torn-up advertising banners to flap like the wings of enormous night birds. You moved almost silently, trying not to step on the broken glass and concrete debris. Your breathing was even, but your heart was beating treacherously—this was your first foray into the Red Zone together without Logan and Riley.

Hash walked a few steps ahead. His figure, clad in tactical gear, almost blended into the gray shadows of the corridor. He was the embodiment of concentration: every turn of his head, every step, measured to the millimeter. Suddenly, he paused at the half-open door leading into what had once been a luxury watch store.

You instantly dropped to the wall, raising your rifle and bracing for contact. But the order to fire didn't come. Instead, Hash slowly turned to face you. In the dim light, his face, painted with camouflage paint, looked like the mask of an ancient warrior. His gaze caught yours, and a strange, barely perceptible half-smile flickered across his lips.

He didn't say a word, knowing that in this deathly silence any sound could be fatal. Instead, he slowly raised his right hand and, with a short, commanding motion, beckoned you toward him with his index finger. The gesture was unusual—it lacked the austerity of a military officer, but rather a personal, almost intimate confidence.