“Slow down, damn it! What if these bastards mined the place?”

  A low voice muttered in the dark, heavy with complaint.

  “Mines? In a dump like this? Don’t flatter them. And why the hell aren’t the lights on? No password response either—what’s going on?”

  Another voice grumbled. Frustration rising.

  “Vitaly must be hoarding fuel again. He’s getting chewed out this time.”

  The third man picked up his pace.

  “Shut up,” said a fourth. The tone dropped—sharper, cautious.

  “Something’s off. There should’ve been someone at the gate. Stay alert.”

  They entered the checkpoint yard but didn’t head straight for the card room. Their eyes were drawn to the MG nest.

  The lead soldier raised a hand, signaling the others to spread out.

  “No one's on the gun,” he muttered, scanning upward. “Bastards… sleeping on duty?”

  Another soldier lifted his flashlight. The beam swept the roofline and passed over the sandbags—briefly catching a limp body and a dark red smear.

  “Blood.”

  The flashlight bearer whispered it, his voice tight. He rushed the MG post and shook a shoulder. The beam flicked and trembled. His face froze in the light.

  “They’re dead! All of them!”

  The yard fell silent. Wind whispered. Breaths quickened.

  Tyto picked up a spent casing and lobbed it toward a pile of rusted barrels.

  Clang—

  The sharp ring of brass on metal shattered the quiet.

  “Over there—go check.”

  Two soldiers moved, flashlight sweeping toward the noise.

  Tyto circled out through the rear of the card room, hugging the wall.

  One soldier had his back turned, rifle down, posture slack. Tyto closed in. One hand over the mouth. The knife slipped cleanly into the neck.

  The body stiffened, then sagged. Tyto dragged it behind the barrels.

  The second man turned, sensing something. Their eyes met. He blinked, gun rising—too slow. The blade opened his throat. His mouth fell wide in a silent scream.

  Back on the roof, the other two soldiers had finished checking the MG nest.

  “No answer from the yard. What the hell?”

  The beam swept back toward the barrels.

  “They’re not responding. Something’s wrong.”

  They jumped down. Advanced cautiously.

  Tyto climbed.

  The two below reached the bodies just as Tyto settled behind the MG.

  They shouted.

  “They’re dead!”

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  “We’re under attack!”

  They ran, heading for the radio shack.

  Tyto swiveled the gun.

  The muzzle flashed—brief, silent light. The rounds tore through the fleeing men. Both dropped. Blood fanned out across the dirt.

  Tyto released the grip. Activated his comm.

  “Checkpoint cleared. Bridge is secure.”

  “Copy. We’re five minutes out.”

  Moments later, engines echoed in the distance. Headlights cut through the dark. The convoy rolled in—Unimog, G63, and Land Cruiser.

  The team dismounted and moved fast.

  “Fuel and weapons first. We don’t need food,” Tyto said, wiring a bundle of explosives as others crossed the yard.

  “Still, a change of taste wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Take their water too,” Richard added. “Cleaner than the river. Saves our filters.”

  “Nothing good here. Rusted junk. Bullets might be useful.”

  “Then take the bullets.”

  Once the vehicles crossed the bridge, Tyto rigged the charges.

  Malik and Viktor stood guard. The gorge was eerily quiet.

  Tyto hit the trigger.

  The bridge collapsed in silence—stone, steel, and wood tumbling into the river below. A geyser of water rose, then fell.

  No one said a word. But inwardly, every man watching felt it—the awe, the fear. Of Tyto. Of Giftborn.

  Tyto didn’t care.

  He climbed back into the G63, shut his eyes, and slept through the jolt of night driving.

  Malik drove without headlights, wearing NV goggles. The world outside the window was black and still.

  Tyto awoke suddenly.

  The target was watching him—face resting on the cage bars, silent. Too close.

  How long had she been staring?

  He sat up fast. Her eyes flicked downward. His followed.

  Tension snapped tight.

  Not now.

  He forced his pulse down. These things happened—especially after combat. Especially in sleep. He had never connected the reflex to Gifts. Until now.

  His voice cut through the dark.

  “What are you looking at?”

  A flicker of something passed through her eyes. Satisfaction?

  “I didn’t do anything,” she said, “Just… watching you sleep.”

  “If you did something—regret it.”

  She smiled. A slow, unreadable smile. Then curled back onto the floor, still wrapped in his blanket.

  She’d learned how to fold it like a sleeping bag.

  She tucked herself in. Closed her eyes again.

  Was it fatigue—or her Gift?

  Tyto stared at her, uncertain.

  Then pulled the blanket over himself and lay back down, doubts heavy as armor.

  He woke to faint daylight.

  The convoy had stopped. Outside the G63, Malik and the others were eating on a cleared patch of ground.

  No one wakes an owl.

  That, at least, they understood.

  From the rear, he heard movement. The target stirred, eyes opening.

  “Sleep well?” she asked casually.

  “Not terrible.” He paused. Then, against instinct:

  “You?”

  “Not great. You reek of cordite and blood.”

  Is that a complaint?

  “It’s my job,” Tyto said.

  “Obviously,” she murmured from beneath the blanket.

  He didn’t answer.

  He turned away, pushed off the blanket, stepped out. Stretched his shoulders. Sleeping in a car twisted everything.

  The forest clearing was quiet. Dappled sun filtered through sparse leaves. The others moved in shadow, eating quietly. The smell of food, the clink of metal—simple, human noise.

  The rations were from last night’s haul. Rough packaging. Some of the Resistance’s cans.

  Tyto opened one. A local variant of spicy beef stew—hot peppers, garlic, onion. Surprisingly good.

  He grabbed another.

  Minutes later, he returned to the G63. Opened the cage.

  She sat up halfway, brushed loose strands of hair aside, gave him a tired glance.

  “Eat something.”

  He tossed a can inside. She caught it.

  Dust and soot clung to the label—bold red letters: Victory is Ours!

  She turned the can over, studying it. Didn’t open it.

  Tyto frowned. “Why not?”

  “Never had it before.” She kept turning it in her hands. Her fingers traced the names of the local spices on the label.

  “I hadn’t either. Tastes good.”

  He wasn’t sure why, but he wanted her to eat it.

  “I don’t eat dead men’s food.”

  She set it down.

  “You’ve killed before.”

  “Killing’s one thing. Eating what they left behind? Feels like… eating them.”

  Tyto stared at her.

  “So you’re intelligence. Not a soldier.”

  “You’re smart,” she said, pushing the can back.

  “Give me a ration pack. I’d rather chew those sawdust biscuits.”