We held the precinct.

  For now.

  The Zionites didn’t rush us. That wasn’t their style. They were smarter than most of the street gangs out here. No shouts. No demands. No scattered gunfire to scare us. Just silence.

  The kind that let you know you were being watched.

  Mark spotted at least fifteen from the second-floor windows. Ferris figured more. Wren didn’t guess at numbers—she just sharpened her blades and waited. But I knew this wasn’t about how many were out there.

  It was about who would break first.

  ?

  Three days passed.

  We slept in shifts, posted rotating watches, ate what we had left, and drank the water that dripped from the busted pipes upstairs. It tasted like rust. Wren called it “seasoned hydration.” Ferris didn’t laugh.

  We weren’t surviving. We were waiting.

  Each morning, we made it look like we were about to make a run for it—loud footsteps across the floor, slamming doors, shouts. Then nothing. Every time we did it, the Zionites moved just a little. Just enough for me to know they were getting nervous.

  They expected desperation.

  Instead, they got rehearsed madness.

  ?

  No one said it, but I could feel it in the air: they weren’t sure I should be leading this.

  Mark watched me work with that same cautious expression. Wren wasn’t subtle—she asked questions I ignored. Ferris just didn’t talk to me at all unless he had to.

  But they still followed orders.

  Because when I laid out the plan—every corner, every decoy, every charge—I didn’t sound like someone guessing.

  I sounded like someone who had done this before.

  And I had. Too many times to count.

  ?

  Luna was banged up, but she’d be fine.

  She moved slower than usual, flinched a little when she twisted her side too fast, but stayed sharp. She was alert. Watching. Thinking.

  She didn’t complain.

  Wren helped her change the bandages once or twice, but that was it. No drama. No fuss. Just quiet acknowledgment of what needed to be done.

  Even Ferris, who still grumbled about “dead weight,” made sure her door stayed barricaded with a filing cabinet.

  We all knew she could walk out of here.

  So it was on us to make sure she got the chance.

  ?

  The plan was simple.

  Explosives at the front lobby. More at the stairwell. One last batch near the loading dock.

  They’d draw attention—flames, noise, maybe even take out a few of them. While the Zionites reacted, we’d go through the south exit.

  The most heavily guarded one.

  The stupidest possible choice.

  Which is why it would work.

  “No one’s dumb enough to go through that side,” Ferris muttered.

  “Exactly,” I said.

  ?

  Mark leaned over as I wrapped det cord around a gas canister.

  “Where the hell did you learn this?” he asked.

  “Don’t ask.”

  He backed off.

  Wren slid down beside me, flicking a pebble across the concrete. “Five minutes before detonation, right?”

  I nodded. “We move before the boom. They’ll assume we’re where the sound is. But we’ll already be behind them.”

  She gave a small smile. “I’m starting to think you enjoy this.”

  I didn’t answer.

  ?

  By the end of the third day, we had the building wired. Doors fortified. Weapons checked.

  We couldn’t run this again.

  If it failed, there wouldn’t be another loop. Not for them.

  I stared at the exit plan one more time. Every angle. Every fallback.

  And then I waited.

  Because if this was going to work, I needed the Zionites to believe they’d won.

  They were already hungry. Tired. They’d start slipping soon.

  They just didn’t know we’d already chosen the battlefield.

  ?

  In the shadows of the ruined precinct, I closed my eyes and listened.

  The ticking of a watch. The breathing of my team. The steady pulse of a memory that never faded.

  They didn’t trust me.

  Not yet.

  But they would.

  Or they’d die.

  Either way, I’d remember.

  ?

  The charges went off just before dawn.

  A low whump from the east stairwell, then a second explosion that rattled the precinct floor beneath our boots. Smoke poured through broken windows, curling like ink through the pale morning light. The Zionites scrambled—just as I hoped they would.

  We saw them move.

  Five of them—maybe more—rushed toward the source of the blast, weapons raised, eyes frantic. We counted ten left in formation near the south wall.

  “Worked,” Wren whispered behind me.

  I didn’t respond.

  Ferris tightened the straps on his scavenged ballistic shield and nodded toward me. “Ready?”

  I adjusted mine, heavier than I remembered from previous loops. Or maybe I was just tired of carrying this weight.

  “Let’s move.”

  ?

  The door to the south side creaked open, just enough for us to slip out. Ferris and I went first, shields raised, keeping tight formation. The rest—Mark, Wren, Luna, and the two scouts—trailed behind, weapons in hand but fingers off the trigger. No gunfire unless absolutely necessary.

  We needed silence. We needed surprise.

  The Zionites didn’t notice us at first.

  But they weren’t idiots.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  By the time we crossed halfway through the wreckage-filled street, they spotted us. Shouts echoed. Footsteps pounded. Bullets cracked.

  We pushed harder.

  Shields caught the first few rounds—loud, jarring thunks against reinforced metal. Ferris shouted something back at them, but I didn’t hear. My focus tunneled. The barricades. The timing. The next ten seconds.

  “Move!” I yelled, and we surged forward into the line of twisted cars just beyond the southern checkpoint.

  We made it.

  Mostly.

  One of the scouts took a graze to the leg. Nothing fatal. We dragged him behind the wall of wreckage. The Zionites regrouped, ducking behind debris, laying down covering fire—but we had ground now. Cover. A fighting chance.

  Until we looked ahead.

  And saw nothing but open field.

  ?

  “Shit,” Mark muttered. “Wide open. No cover for at least two hundred yards.”

  “We’ll get picked off like flies,” one of the scouts said.

  “No way we outrun them all,” Ferris added, already reloading.

  My mind spun. Walls. Choke points. Angles. None of that existed out here. Just sky and death and flat dirt.

  Unless someone stayed behind.

  “Alright,” I said. “New plan.”

  They turned to me.

  “I stay. Hold them back.”

  “What?” Mark stepped forward immediately, eyes wide. “Like hell you are.”

  “It’s the only way. I slow them down, draw fire, maybe lead them away. The rest of you make the run.”

  “No,” Wren said. Her voice wasn’t loud. But it cut through the chaos. “No, we’re not doing that.”

  “I’m not asking.”

  “You never do,” she snapped. She looked angry—no, bothered. More than that. “And you all just go along with it? Really?”

  The two scouts glanced at each other and nodded. Ferris gave a grunt that might’ve meant “yes” or “screw it.” Either way, he was in.

  Wren stared at them in disbelief. “Seriously? Just like that?”

  “They’ve done the math,” I said.

  She looked at me then. Not with her usual smirk. No flirtation. No fire.

  Just worry.

  Real worry.

  Luna had been sitting in silence, resting against a half-crushed sedan with one leg stretched out. Her face was unreadable. She hadn’t said a word through the whole argument.

  Until now.

  She spoke calmly. Quietly. But the tone cut clean.

  “Rex.”

  Everyone stopped.

  She looked at me—not away, not down, at me. Eyes steady. “Can you come back alive?”

  The street felt suddenly too quiet.

  I didn’t blink. “Yes.”

  She held my gaze for a long moment.

  Then she nodded. Just once.

  Mark didn’t like it. Wren still looked like she wanted to scream. But Luna’s nod ended the debate.

  I pulled out a flare. “When this goes off—you run. No turning around. No hesitation.”

  “We should be the ones staying behind,” Wren said bitterly.

  “No. You’re faster. You’re healthy. You can keep her moving.” I motioned toward Luna.

  Wren didn’t reply.

  She just stared at the dirt.

  I handed the flare to Ferris. “Wait for the signal. Keep everyone close. And if anyone slows down—”

  “I’ll carry them,” Ferris said. His voice was low. Serious.

  I nodded.

  Tension crackled between us like a live wire. No one wanted to speak. No one wanted to say goodbye.

  So I didn’t let them.

  I turned my back and climbed onto a rusted van, raising my rifle, scanning for movement.

  Let them think I was suicidal.

  Let them chase me.

  Because if I could buy thirty seconds—

  They had a shot.

  And that was enough.

  _______

  They ran.

  The flare shot up with a crack and trailed smoke across the pale sky like a dying star. My signal. My promise.

  Go.

  I heard the crunch of boots behind me as the group vanished into the field—Mark, Wren, Ferris, Luna, the scouts. My shield was already up, my magnum gripped tight.

  Then I stepped into the open.

  The Zionites saw me before I fired.

  BOOM.

  The magnum roared and slammed back against my arm. One of them dropped—clean shot to the chest.

  They flinched.

  Another step forward. Another shot.

  BOOM.

  A second went down screaming.

  That got their attention.

  Shouts. Movement. They scrambled to regroup and return fire. Bullets smashed into the shield as I charged, legs pumping, teeth clenched. I dropped the shield mid-sprint and drew my katana in one fluid motion.

  Steel met chaos.

  The first man rounded the corner too slow—I split him from collar to gut. The second raised his gun but didn’t shoot fast enough. I drove the blade through his sternum, yanked it free, and spun to deflect a knife swipe from another attacker.

  Three fell in under ten seconds.

  I was already moving before their bodies hit the ground.

  I moved through them like a storm. They were spread out now—scared, chaotic. Not soldiers. Not fighters. Just targets.

  When I was certain the group had enough of a head start, I turned away from the last cluster of enemies.

  And began to hunt.

  ?

  The first trail led to a bloodied man crawling toward a garage. He never saw me coming. My katana slid into his ribs with no resistance. His head lolled forward.

  I moved on.

  Next, a girl ran down a narrow alley. She had dropped her weapon, was panting hard. She turned too late. I slashed across her chest. She crumpled without a word.

  Two others tried to regroup. I caught one with a magnum shot and let the other run—on purpose.

  The chase thrilled me.

  I hated that it did.

  I hated the part of me that came alive when I stalked them. That calculated angles, read blood trails, and relished the look of terror when they finally realized I wasn’t going to stop.

  But I didn’t stop.

  I never stopped.

  ?

  The last one—or so I thought—was waiting behind a rusted fence. He was better trained than the others. His shots were tighter, faster. He clipped my side and closed in with an axe. We fought—blades clashing, fists flying, breath ragged. He bled out after I landed a blow that tore his arm nearly in half.

  I thought it was over.

  Until I saw new tracks. Different stride. Wider spacing.

  This one wasn’t panicked.

  He was running smart.

  A survivor.

  I followed.

  ?

  He looped through debris-strewn side streets and back alleys, doubling back twice, cutting through collapsed buildings like he’d lived here once. I kept pace.

  Always just behind.

  The trail led back toward the main road, where old pavement cracked under tangled vines and the skeletons of forgotten cars.

  He stumbled on the slope of a broken curb, realized too late I’d caught up.

  I stepped from the alley.

  Gun raised.

  He spun with his rifle, desperate to aim.

  I shot first—hit the gun, shattering the stock. He screamed as metal shards sliced his arm.

  I closed the distance and tackled him into the side of a wrecked van.

  He squirmed.

  I drew my katana and drove it clean through his ribs, pinning him against the frame like an insect under glass.

  He screamed again, but I twisted the blade just enough to keep him alive.

  “Don’t kill me,” he gasped. “Please—please—”

  “Not yet,” I said, my voice colder than I remembered it ever being.

  I leaned in close, eyes locked with his. He looked young. Seventeen, maybe eighteen.

  “Fifteen of you came,” I said. “How many are left?”

  He spat blood and defiance. “Go to hell.”

  I smiled. Slowly.

  Not the kind that reassures.

  The kind that hurts.

  “I like the ones who don’t talk right away.”

  Not quite what I used to say. But close enough.

  I grabbed his left wrist.

  Then sliced clean through it.

  The hand fell to the ground, twitching.

  He screamed again. Louder this time.

  “How many,” I repeated.

  “F-Fifteen,” he stammered. “There were fifteen. That’s all of us. I’m the last.”

  I nodded.

  “Now tell me,” I said. “How did you know we’d be here? Who told you?”

  “I—I don’t know,” he whimpered. “I’m just a grunt—they told us to come here. Said some group was gonna raid the precinct. That’s all I know!”

  So it was true.

  There was a rat in this loop too.

  It always ended like this—Eden falling, me piecing it together too late. I’d interrogated dozens across loops. I’d never caught the traitor. Not once.

  I clenched my fist. “Where are the rest of you based?”

  He swallowed. “North. The city’s north side. That’s where the main group is.”

  “Your leader?”

  His eyes darted. “You… you’ll kill me if I tell you.”

  I said nothing. Just pressed the blade a little deeper.

  He cried out again. “He’s—he calls himself a king. Everyone follows him because he’s strong. Strongest guy I’ve ever seen. People don’t question him.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I don’t—just ‘the King.’ That’s all I know, I swear.”

  “What weapons do they have? Defenses?”

  “Guns. Lots. Reinforced trucks. I—I saw crates. Big ones. Rockets, maybe. They’re gearing up for something.”

  I stared at him. He looked hollow now. Broken.

  He blinked up at me, blood staining his teeth.

  “So… so you’ll let me go?”

  I didn’t answer.

  I raised the katana.

  He saw it too late.

  His head hit the dirt before the word “go” left his mouth.

  I wiped the blade clean.

  “Quick death. That’s what you get.”

  ?

  I turned to find them watching.

  The others—Wren, Mark, Ferris, the scouts. Even Luna.

  They’d seen everything.

  No one said a word.

  Wren’s eyes were wide. Mark’s jaw clenched. One of the scouts looked away. Ferris didn’t even blink.

  Luna’s face was unreadable.

  I met their gaze.

  “All of them are dead,” I said. “And now we know where the Zionites are.”

  No one answered.

  We just kept walking.