The cold, sterile room was lit only by the harsh overhead fluorescent lights, buzzing softly in the silence. Arthur stood in the middle, his eyes distant and unreadable, staring at the steel walls as his breath echoed in the quiet. Every inhale felt sharp, too loud, as if his the only person in the room.

  His gaze shifted to his squad. They were chained up, arms and legs immobilized, barely able to shift even a centimeter. The sound of their ragged breathing filled the room, heavy and strained, and for a moment, it felt like time was standing still.

  Arthur bit his lip, feeling the anger rise like bile in his throat. His eyes burned as they flicked from the soldiers holding his team captive to the man in charge. "Let them go," he said, his voice rough with anger, but still steady. "We’re one of you. Release them."

  The soldier, unmoved, pointed a gun directly at Arthur’s forehead. The metallic click of the gun's safety coming off was the only sound before he spoke. "I told you," he said, his voice sharp, almost annoyed, "this is an order from higher-ups."

  Arthur didn’t flinch. His eyes stayed locked on the soldier, defiance still burning in them, but there was something else too—something like a plea, a raw desperation buried beneath the anger. The weight of the gun felt real, but it didn’t scare him.

  The tension in the room thickened, like it was pressing in from all sides. Arthur could almost feel the walls closing in, but then, the sound of a door opening sliced through the stillness. All heads turned instinctively.

  Arthur’s breath caught in his throat as his eyes widened. There, walking toward them with unnerving precision, was the woman who had orchestrated this entire mission. Her steps were deliberate, each one echoing off the cold, hard floor. But what froze Arthur in place wasn’t just her presence—it was the man beside her. An old man, his face an impassive mask, the kind of expression that could only be worn by someone who had seen too much of the world’s cruelty.

  Arthur’s heart pounded in his chest as they approached. The old man’s gaze felt like ice, his eyes locked onto Arthur like a predator sizing up its prey. The cold glare didn’t shift for even a second, and Arthur felt his insides twist.

  “General Douglas... w-what are you doing h-here?” Arthur’s words came out in a jagged stutter, his voice faltering as his mind struggled to make sense of what was happening. The reality of the mission, the weight of the situation—it all came crashing down on him in that moment.

  His eyes flicked nervously between the general and the woman, then back to the soldier still holding the gun aimed at him. He knew. He knew exactly why they were here now. And it felt like the floor had been ripped out from under him.

  Douglas took slow, deliberate steps toward Arthur, his boots echoing through the quiet room, each step heavier than the last. The air seemed to thicken around them as the distance between them shrank, and when he finally stood before Arthur, the room fell into an almost unbearable silence. Without warning, Douglas clapped his hands together, a sharp, unsettling sound that seemed to reverberate through the walls.

  “I’ve come to take what’s mine,” he said, his voice cold and smooth, like steel being drawn from its sheath.

  Arthur’s heart hammered in his chest, but before he could respond, Douglas closed the distance in an instant, gripping his chin with a force so tight that Arthur couldn’t move. The pressure of the man’s hand was like iron. His eyes, once filled with only the cold, distant calculation of a soldier, were now boiling with fury. “Since when did you start having emotions?” he growled, his voice dripping with contempt.

  Arthur tried to wrench himself free, but it was futile. His body stiffened, and just as his lungs burned with the need for air, Douglas pulled back, only to lash out with a brutal punch. The blow landed squarely in his abdomen, and the impact was so severe that Arthur doubled over, bile rising in his throat. He gagged violently, saliva spilling from his mouth as his vision blurred.

  The room spun as the pain flooded his senses, but there was no sympathy in Douglas’s eyes—only the harsh satisfaction of someone reclaiming control.

  Even though the pain in his stomach was unbearable, Arthur forced himself to stand. His body shook, but his glare was sharp, filled with rage as he locked eyes with Douglas.

  “What the hell are you up to?” he growled, his voice strained but firm. “I’ve told you over and over—I won’t go back to the battlefield. I’m sick of taking lives like it’s some privilege, like I can kill without facing the weight of it.” His breathing grew heavy, but his voice didn’t waver. “I’m not a tool. I’m not some mindless weapon you can deploy whenever you feel like it. I have feelings. I am human. And I’M SICK OF BEING USED AS YOU PLEASE!”

  His shout echoed through the cold, lifeless room. His squad flinched at the sound, blindfolded, but they could feel the weight of his words. Some bit their lips, holding back the emotions bubbling beneath their restraints.

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  Then—without hesitation, without warning—Douglas drew his gun from his holster.

  A single gunshot cracked through the silence.

  Arthur’s heart stopped as Therese’s body went limp, blood spilling onto the floor beneath him.

  His breath hitched, his entire world narrowing to that one moment. His mind refused to process it—Therese, dead. Just like that. Killed not by an enemy, but by their own people. By his own general.

  “THERESE!!” Arthur’s voice tore from his throat as he lurched forward, instinct taking over. But before he could move another step—

  Click.

  A gun pressed against his forehead.

  Arthur froze, his teeth sinking into his lip so hard he could taste blood. His fists clenched at his sides, shaking. He didn’t dare move, but his glare burned into Douglas with nothing but hatred.

  Douglas stared down at him, unfazed, his grip steady on the weapon. “Come back to us, Arthur.” His voice was cold, unwavering. “We need you to win this war. And you—only you—can give us victory.”

  The silence took over, heavy and suffocating, leaving Arthur no choice but to swallow the bitter truth in front of him. He drew in a breath, slow and shaky, trying to steady the storm inside.

  “If I accept your demands,” he said, his voice calm but hollow, “will you let them go?”

  The words lingered in the air, unanswered. Then—

  “Sergeant!!!”

  The desperate cry cut through the tension. It was Ray. His voice cracked as he shouted, eyes wide beneath the bruises, fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

  “Don’t worry about us!” he yelled, forcing strength into his voice, even as it trembled.

  “Live the life you wanted, Sergeant!!” Sasha’s voice followed, sharp and clear despite the pain in her throat. Her face was streaked with blood, and because she kept on moving, the blindfold slowly loosen up and her gaze was shown and it never wavered.

  “This is my fault!” Danny screamed. “I should’ve checked the place better—I should’ve known! I’m sorry!” His shoulders shook as he shouted, cuffed hands trembling at his sides.

  Albert winced, pain seizing his chest with every breath, but still, he drew in one more. “Sergeant,” he rasped, voice dry and rough, “you saved our lives more times than I can count... and because of you, we knew what it meant to live freely, even for a while.”

  He looked up, barely holding himself upright.

  “So now—choose your freedom.”

  Even with their bodies beaten and voices raw, they forced the words out—not to beg for rescue, but to give Arthur a reason to walk away.

  Because they meant it. Even if it cost them everything.

  Douglas took a step forward, boots thudding against the cold floor. But before he could move any closer, Arthur’s voice ripped through the air.

  “STOP!”

  It echoed off the steel walls, raw and commanding.

  Douglas paused, one eyebrow twitching, then raised a hand. His men responded immediately, moving to the captives.

  One by one, the blindfolds were lifted.

  Arthur’s breath caught as their faces came into view—bruised, battered, but unbroken. Their eyes locked with his, steady and unflinching. No fear. No hesitation. Just quiet defiance and something stronger beneath it—loyalty.

  They weren’t afraid to die.

  Not if it meant protecting him.

  Arthur clenched his fists at his sides, his jaw trembling. The weight of their resolve pressed down on him like chains far heavier than any his squad now wore.

  Douglas smiled—not with joy, but with the quiet satisfaction of someone who’d just seen the fire he’d been trying to extinguish burn brighter. Their defiance didn’t amuse him. It rattled him.

  Still, he moved forward, each step deliberate. Then, without warning, he drew his gun and aimed it straight at Arthur.

  Gasps filled the room like shattered glass.

  Panic surged through the squad—eyes wide, bodies tensing. They strained against their restraints, wrists bruising as they fought to rise, but the chains held firm. A guttural, helpless frustration echoed from their throats.

  Arthur’s breath hitched. He stared at the barrel inches from his face, then at the people who had once followed him into hell and back—now reduced to trembling limbs and bloodied wrists.

  His lips parted.

  “P-P-Please,” he choked, voice barely holding together. “Let them go. I-I’ll do whatever you want me to do… just let them go.”

  The words cracked with desperation, raw and naked.

  A single tear slid down his cheek—quiet, unnoticed by him, but loud enough for the whole room to hear.

  Douglas's eyes widened—just a flicker, but enough to betray his surprise. The weapon he had forged through blood, training, and discipline… now trembled in front of him, cracking at the seams. Vulnerability had replaced obedience. And it was real.

  He steadied his hand and pressed the cold metal of the gun against Arthur’s forehead.

  “STOP!!! YOU DAMN—!” Ray’s voice tore through the room, hoarse and broken. He lunged forward, the chains rattling violently as he tried to stand, but his knees buckled under him.

  Douglas turned his gaze to him—calm, but laced with malice.

  “If you’re so desperate to save your sergeant,” he said slowly, like a serpent coiling, “then offer your life to him.”

  He paused, then held the pistol out and forced it into Arthur’s hands, curling Arthur’s fingers around the grip.

  “I’ll let him live…” Douglas said, his voice almost gentle now, “if you let yourselves die by his hand.”