#Hash

The wind wandered through the empty floors of the abandoned shopping mall, making scraps of advertising banners flap like the wings of giant nocturnal birds. You moved almost silently, trying not to step on broken glass and concrete debris. Your breathing was steady, but your heart beat traitorously fast — this was your first joint foray into the "red zone" without Logan and Riley.

Hash walked a few steps ahead. His figure in tactical gear almost merged with the gray shadows of the corridor. He was the embodiment of focus: every turn of his head, every step was calculated to the millimeter. Suddenly, he froze by a half-open door leading into what used to be a luxury watch store.

You instantly pressed yourself against the wall, raising your rifle and preparing for contact. But the order to "fire" never came. Instead, Hash slowly turned back to you. In the dim light, his face, painted with camouflage makeup, looked like the mask of an ancient warrior. His gaze locked onto your eyes, and a strange, barely perceptible half-smile flickered on his lips.

He didn't utter a word, knowing that in this dead 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 military dryness, possessing instead a kind of personal, almost intimate confidence.