The briefing room doors clicked shut behind Razor, and the soft hum of the fluorescent lights filled the air, but the weight of the room still pressed down on him. His team stood in scattered groups, still absorbing the information they’d just received. The debrief had been intense, but Razor had no patience for lingering—there was always something else to do.
"Alright," he said, his voice calm but firm, drawing the team's attention. "You’ve all been dismissed. Get some rest. Tomorrow we move out again. Make sure you’re ready."
Gator, Maverick, and the others gave him a brief nod before they headed to their quarters. They’d all earned a break—everyone had been running on empty for too long.
But not Razor. He had no time to rest.
As the last of the team filed out, Razor turned and made his way toward the training area.
The clang of metal echoed through the training room as Razor struck the heavy bag with sharp, rhythmic precision. His fists, wrapped in tape, slammed into the canvas in time with the steady rhythm of his breath—controlled, focused, relentless. Each hit vibrated through his shoulders, burning off tension that words couldn’t reach.
The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting a pale glow across the reinforced walls and empty sparring mats. The rest of the team had dispersed, dismissed for the day after the debriefing. They needed rest. Tomorrow would come with new orders. But Razor—he didn’t rest. Not when the world was still falling apart.
He didn’t look up when the door creaked open.
Boots echoed across the floor, steady and unhurried. Hale.
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“You ever stop?” Hale asked, stopping near the edge of the mat, arms crossed as he watched Razor throw another strike into the bag.
Razor exhaled through his nose, finished a quick flurry, then stepped back. Sweat clung to his shirt, dampening the fabric beneath his vest. “Not when it’s quiet.”
Hale gave a tired chuckle, dropping onto a nearby bench. “Yeah. Silence feels worse than the infected some days.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Razor grabbed a towel, wiping his face and the back of his neck before tossing it aside. He looked at Hale then, eyes unreadable behind the black skull balaclava he never removed.
“They're changing,” Razor said, voice low. “The infected. They're not the same anymore.”
Hale nodded, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “We used to have Shamblers. Easy enough to put down, as long as you kept your distance. Then came Crawlers—faster, meaner. And now? Shadows. Tentacled freaks. Something’s wrong.”
“It’s not just mutation,” Razor said. “It’s coordination. Some of them work in packs now. They’re ambushing, learning.”
“Evolving.” Hale’s jaw clenched. “We thought the worst passed when the lab went up. Thought it stopped there.”
Razor scoffed. “We were wrong.”
Hale stared at the floor, his brow furrowed. “You think there’s more out there? Something... behind all of this?”
“There’s always something behind it.” Razor's voice was quiet, but firm. “We’ve been on the defensive since day one. Fighting symptoms. Never the source.”
There was a beat of silence.
“We need to change how we move,” Hale said. “Next mission—no more just scavenging or supply runs. We start looking for answers. Any records, data, hell, even a survivor with some inside knowledge. Someone out there knows more than we do.”
Razor nodded slowly, pacing in a tight circle. “We’re running blind. That ends tomorrow.”
A pause. Then Hale stood again, cracking his neck as he walked to stand beside him.
“We're not losing because they're stronger,” he said. “We’re losing because we don’t understand what we’re up against.”
Razor didn’t reply, not right away. He walked up to the bag again, set his stance, and threw a clean, heavy punch that sent the chain rattling. The bag swung wildly, swaying like a pendulum.
Then, Razor finally spoke.
“We need to start thinking like we’re losing,” he said. “Because we are.”
