The explosion swallows the alley in orange light. A boot lands three feet from your face, still smoking.

“” — the voice in your head says it like a taunt, a whisper over the dead comms. They’ll break before you do.

He pivots, fires two shots—both hit center mass. But the third is already on him, blade gliding under his chin. Diaz drops with a wet gasp, his rifle clattering against a Union Jack souvenir stand. Now it’s just you.

The enemy knows. They always know. The first wave of the 20th is different. No shouting. No gunfire to announce themselves. Just the shink-shink of combat knives being drawn from nylon sheaths. Three of them, moving through the gift shop rubble like oil slicks. Silent. Precise.

You think you know pressure. Then you hear the click.

. The twentieth minute. The twentieth round. The twentieth time you’ve watched a teammate die.