Northern Balkans – Outskirts of Vukovar, Winter 1996

  A frostbitten wind scraped across the jagged ruins of what used to be a village — now only charred wood, shell casings, and silence. Smoke curled like dying spirits from cratered homes. The dead lay scattered, faceless beneath soot and snow.

  And yet… something moved.

  From the debris of a collapsed stone wall, a figure pulled himself out — torn flak jacket, blood-caked hands, gash above the eyebrow still leaking. He grunted, one leg dragging as he limped toward a shattered jeep.

  Dev Malik was alive.

  Barely.

  His comms were jammed. His rifle was gone. His heartbeat thundered like artillery. Every breath cut like glass. Yet something colder than pain burned inside him.

  "They left me."

  It wasn’t just the ambush. It wasn’t just the explosion. It was calculated. His unit — the best kill team in the Balkans, ex-special forces, deniable assets for NATO black ops — had turned on him mid-operation.

  Shot at him.

  Tried to erase him.

  One of them had smiled before the grenade went off. That smile haunted his mind as he dragged his broken body across the mud.

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  He found a half-crushed satphone near a corpse.

  Static.

  Then a voice:

  "No loose ends. If you see Malik, confirm kill."

  He didn’t even flinch. Just stared out across the empty fields as the last light died.

  Flashback – 12 Hours Earlier

  Inside an old slaughterhouse turned war-room, Dev briefed his team.

  "Target moves at dawn. Convoy route's tight — minimal exposure. We breach from the ridge, extract in under six."

  They nodded. All business. But now, in hindsight, he could see it.

  How Colonel Drazic, the mission sponsor, avoided his eyes.

  How Keller, his second-in-command, checked his watch one too many times.

  He was never meant to survive this.

  Back to Present

  He tore fabric from a corpse to dress his wound. Blood soaked the snow as he tied the knot. Nearby, a dog gnawed on a frozen limb. Dev didn’t blink.

  He had no food. No shelter. No allies.

  But what he had now… was clarity.

  "This isn’t war anymore."

  "This is a message."

  They’d tried to erase him like a chalk mark on a war map. But they forgot one thing:

  "You can’t kill a ghost."

  Not one like Dev Malik.

  Five Days Later – Black Site Medical Outpost, Kosovo

  A rebel medic cursed under her breath as she stitched his chest.

  "Whatever’s keeping you alive… isn’t medicine."

  Dev stared at the ceiling.

  "No," he said hoarsely. "It’s something worse."

  She glanced down. "What do they call you?"

  He didn’t answer.

  Not yet.

  Unmarked Grave, Vukovar

  At midnight, two mercenaries stood over a grave marked only by a dog tag.

  "Malik’s dead," one said. "No way he made it out."

  The other lit a cigarette. "Then who blew up Drazic’s convoy yesterday?"

  They looked at each other.

  Far off, something howled.