The sound of rain on the tin roof was almost comforting. Almost.
Elias Thorne emptied his canteen in one long gulp. Warm water. Maybe contaminated. But it was that or die of thirst.
They were camped at an abandoned gas station, about thirty kilometers from the mission's rendezvous point. Grimm lay near the door, one eye half-open. Ash growled softly in his sleep, paws twitching as if still running.
Elias studied the map under the beam of a flashlight. Sector 14-B wasn't neutral territory. It was a gray zone — land contested by rogue militias, ex-soldiers, bandits, and zealots. Lawless ground.
Or worse: ruled by laws invented by men who worshipped their own madness.
"This is gonna be shit," he muttered to himself.
He turned off the flashlight. Couldn't risk being seen.
In the silence that followed, something moved in the dark. A dry snap, like a branch breaking. Grimm raised his head. Ash gave a low, genuine growl now.
Elias didn't hesitate. He grabbed his rifle and positioned himself behind a rusted fuel pump. Silence. Nothing. Then, a shadow.
"Who's there?" he asked, voice low and steady.
No answer. Only the rain, falling harder. And then, two eyes in the bushes — hungry, desperate.
A boy. Couldn't have been more than fifteen. Torn clothes. Dried blood on his face.
"You're hurt?" Elias asked.
No reply. The boy stepped forward. In his hands, a jagged piece of metal — makeshift knife.
Elias raised his rifle.
"Don't do this."
The boy hesitated. His eyes were filled with fear, but also hunger. Rage. Exhaustion.
Then he charged.
The shot cracked the air and the boy fell. Grimm ran to the body, sniffing, alert. Ash stayed beside Elias, eyes downcast.
Silence returned. Elias approached. The boy was still breathing.
"Damn it," he whispered.
He lifted the kid in his arms. Light as a memory.
He laid him on the dry floor inside the station. Tore a strip of his own shirt to stop the bleeding.
The boy had no name. No story. But he was still alive.
And that still meant something to Elias.
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