Vosges, November 1944.

  The rain had been relentless. Now reduced to a freezing drizzle falling steadily from the blackened sky, turning the ruins of the small French village into a slick, mud choked quagmire. Every surface was sheeted in sleet. Crumbled rooftops, skeletal beams, and the broken remnants of walls that now stood as lonely sentinels. The trees beyond the town loomed dark and heavy with moisture and ice, their branches sagging under the weight. It was freezing, the kind of cold that cut straight through wool coats and into the bones. Breath turned to mist the moment it left the mouth, and exposed fingers ached with numbness. -

  Emmett Granger crouched behind what was left of a stone wall, its mortar cracked but still strong enough to hold back stray rounds. He felt its icy surface through his damp gloves as he leaned against its surface, MP40 slung across his chest and binoculars held just below his chin. The air was unnervingly quiet. Only the faint howl of the wind broke the stillness. That and the occasional groan of the village as the ruined structures settled into their foundations.

  He hesitated before bringing the binoculars up to his eyes. Anxiety prickled at his gut. He’d taken care to stretch a fine mesh over the lenses to dull the reflection, hopefully keeping him from being noticed by a sniper. but it was hard not to worry. Things like that tended to gnaw at a man when survival hinged on not standing out.

  “Anything?” A voice beside him broke the silence.

  Emmett glanced over at Henri Roux, who manned an MG42. The barrel shroud covered with a draped scrap of burlap, to keep the snow from collecting on the weapon. His gloved hands rubbed together uselessly, the leather cracked from wear and exposure.

  “Nothin’.” Emmett muttered, shaking his head. He brought the binoculars back down. “Just snow, snow, and... oh look, trees.” The words rolled off his tongue a dry, sardonic drawl that came so naturally to him.

  Henri snorted and shivered. “God, I’m cold.” He groaned, pulling his scarf tighter around his neck. “I think my bones are frozen.”

  Emmett nodded, his jaw tightening against his own misery. “Same. Along with hungry, and in desperate need of a drink.”

  Henri barked out a tired laugh, his breath puffing white into the damp air. “Yeah, whiskey. A whole bottle for me, mon ami.”

  Emmett grunted in agreement. Whiskey sounded like salvation right now. Even the watered-down stuff they’d managed to barter off farmers would do the trick. Instead, all they had was stale bread, the occasional stolen can of food, and whatever grim satisfaction came from yesterday’s victory.

  That fight had been a bastard. The Germans had pushed hard, trying to retake the small but vital village held by a blend of FFI forces and handfuls of partisans who were used to pad their numbers. Mortar rounds had turned buildings into smoldering rubble, machine gun fire had ripped apart doorways, and hand-to-hand fighting in the narrow streets had left blood frozen in icy pools. But they’d held. Scrappy, determined, and armed almost entirely with captured German weapons, had sent the Krauts running.

  Now they just had to hold this point a little longer. Word had it that an allied detachment was making its way toward them, but the road was slow and treacherous, and nobody trusted a timeline in this war.

  Henri turned toward him again, grinning despite the miserable cold. “You know, Emmett, I must say your French has dramatically improved in recent months.” He said in an oddly cheery tone.

  Emmett shot him a flat look, adjusting the arm band on his left bicep. “It was bound to happen sooner or later.” He replied. “Sink or swim. Didn’t have much choice.”

  Henri chuckled, shaking his head. “Certainly surprised it took as long as it did, but I suppose better late than never, mon ami.”

  Before Emmett could answer, a sound cut through the still night like a blade. A low, haunting howl that rose and fell with the wind.

  The chill that had been gnawing at Emmett’s skin seemed to sink deeper, clawing at his spine. He froze for half a beat, the sound echoing in his ears. It couldn’t have been a wolf… at least not likely after the brutal firefight that day.

  Henri stiffened beside him, his grip on the MG42 tightening. “Odd.” He muttered, his voice edged with nervous humor. “I would have thought all the gunfire yesterday scared the animals away.”

  He turned toward Emmett, his grin uncertain. “Perhaps the Germans froze to death and are being picked apart, oui?” He hefted the MG42, its weight shifting reassuringly against his shoulder.

  Emmett didn’t laugh. His brow furrowed as he scanned the treeline again, his fingers steady on the cold metal of his MP40. “Hell.” He muttered, squinting into the darkness. “We can always hope.”

  The forest fell silent again save the whispering breeze. low, restless, as it cut through the glassy branches. The world was coated in frozen armor, every twig and bough sheathed in glistening ice.

  Dark clouds split overhead, and the moon spilled through the gap, its glow stretching pale and silvery across the skeletal woods. The light caught the frozen trees, turning them into a cathedral of cold crystal.

  Emmett’s gut tightened. Something wasn’t right.

  His breath misted in front of him as he scanned the treeline once more, his movements slow and deliberate. For a split second, he thought he saw something, a flicker of movement, a shadow shifting where there shouldn’t have been one.

  He blinked, staring hard at the spot. It could’ve been a trick of the moonlight, the way it bled silver through the branches, but his instincts screamed otherwise.

  “Henri.” He muttered, his voice low and steady. “Get ready with that buzzsaw.”

  Henri frowned, but he didn’t argue. He readied the MG42, freeing the burlap sack. The weapon’s bipod planted firmly onto the damp, icy rubble.

  Emmett turned to one of the nearby Irregulars, a younger man named Jules who was clutching a captured rifle. “Hey.” Emmett said, snapping his fingers to get the kid’s attention. “Tell the others. I think I saw something.” He said in French.

  Jules nodded sharply, his eyes wide, and darted off into the shadows of the ruins, his boots slipping on the muddy ground.

  Emmett pressed against the stone wall, his MP40 raised as he scanned the treeline one last time. The silence persisted, stretching out like a thin wire ready to snap.

  Rain drizzled across his vision, making the shadowy shapes beyond the village seem to shift and twist like ghosts. He could feel his pulse thrumming in his ears, that familiar wartime rhythm, one that always settled in when something didn’t sit right.

  Henri crouched beside him, checking the MG42 again with a grunt. The big German gun looked menacing even in its stillness, and the long belt of ammunition draped over the weapon like the coils of a snake. “We start firing.” Henri said, his French accent thick. “You’ll be my assistant, oiu? Since you so kindly sent Jules away.”

  Emmett snorted faintly, his lips quirking into a grin. “Kid needed the exercise.” He replied, his voice low and steady. He adjusted the sling of his MP40 across his chest and nodded toward the weapon. “But yeah, I’ll help you feed that buzzsaw.”

  Henri chuckled softly, shaking his head as he checked the ammo boxes stacked beside him. The act was more habit than necessity. He’d already checked twice, but Henri seemed to need to reassure himself.

  Then it came again.

  A howl, distant and haunting, carried on the wind. It echoed through the trees. Before it had faded entirely, others joined it. Overlapping howls that grew louder, more insistent, like a hunting party announcing its presence.

  Henri’s hands froze, his grin faltering as he glanced toward the treeline. “Maybe the Germans have gone mad, howling like maniacs.” He said with a forced chuckle, though his voice betrayed the unease creeping in.

  Emmett’s grip on the MP40 tightened as he swept his gaze across the darkened woods. “That makes me feel all kinds of unsettled.” He muttered.

  “The howls?” Henri asked, his eyes flickering to Emmett.

  “Yeah.” Emmett replied. His breath misted in front of him, lingering in the cold.

  Jules came sprinting back, his boots crunching over the muddy rubble as he ducked low and slid back into position next to Henri. His cheeks were flushed red from the cold and exertion, and his breathing came in sharp bursts.

  “They are notified?” Henri asked in French, sparing the young man a glance.

  Jules nodded quickly, his chest heaving. “Oui.” He panted, fumbling with the MG42’s belt to prepare himself as the assistant gunner.

  “Good.” Henri said, his tone firm and reassuring, though Emmett noticed the Frenchman’s gloved hands had begun to tremble just slightly as he settled back into position.

  Emmett turned back to the forest, his shoulders hunched tight as he scanned the treeline. His breath was steady, but the sense of foreboding had settled deep in his bones. “So far it’s quiet out there.” He murmured, though his words rang hollow even to himself.

  A series of dull, rhythmic thumps echoed from the distance, like far-off thunder rolling through the night. At first, it was so faint he wasn’t sure he’d heard it at all. Then it came again. Thump, thump, thump, closer now.

  The color drained from Emmett’s face as realization hit him like a gut punch. A chill raced up his spine, and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

  “Mortars!” he roared in French, his voice sharp and cutting through the silence.

  Everything happened at once.

  The first mortar round shrieked as it descended, followed by an ear-splitting crack as it slammed into the earth. The explosion lit up the darkness like lightning, a plume of fire and smoke erupting from the mud. The shockwave hit Emmett like a fist, rattling the stone wall he was tucked against.

  “Get down!” He bellowed, ducking low and pressing himself hard against the cold ground. He held his helmet tight and flattened himself against the wall, his muscles coiled instinctively as the barrage began.

  BOOM! Another round hit, closer this time. The force of the blast threw loose stones and debris into the air, pelting Emmett’s back like hail. The flashes illuminated the scene in brutal, chaotic bursts. Half-buried bodies from the day before, and shattered walls crumbling further.

  The ground shook as mortars rained down mercilessly, pounding their position. Henri was yelling something in French, but Emmett couldn’t make it out over the roar of explosions. The air stank of burning earth, acrid smoke, and blood.

  One mortar hit so close that Emmett felt the heat of it blast over him, and for a brief moment, the world went silent. All he could hear was a dull ringing in his ears as he pressed himself tighter against the stone wall. Ice and debris settled slowly around him like the aftermath of a violent storm.

  Emmett coughed, his lungs burning from the smoke. He pushed himself up slowly, his head spinning as the ringing began to subside. “Henri?” He croaked, blinking hard to clear his vision.

  Then he saw it.

  Jules.

  The young Frenchman lay sprawled out in front of Emmett, his body still and broken. Half of his head was simply gone. A ragged, smoldering mass of viscera and fragments of white bone was piled where his skull had been. Blood and brain matter stained the snow in a grotesque halo around him, smoke curling faintly from the ruin of his head. His lifeless eyes stared blankly into the void, forever frozen in shock.

  Emmett’s stomach twisted, his mouth going dry as he stared. “Jesus.” He muttered hoarsely, his voice shaking. Emmett’s gaze lifted to the other men manning the line. Bodies lay still, men groaning in pain while only a handful seemed fit to fight.

  Henri’s voice snapped him out of it. “Emmett!”

  He spun toward the MG42 as Henri waved him over, the Frenchman’s face pale but determined. “Come on!” Henri barked, his voice rough as he yanked the weapon into firing position. “I need you!”

  Emmett pushed himself to his feet, his legs unsteady beneath him. The chaos around him felt like a dream. Distant and disjointed, but the urgency in Henri’s voice cut through the fog.

  “Yeah…” Emmett muttered, stumbling toward the MG42. “Yeah, I’m here.” Although he couldn’t hear his own voice over the ringing in his ears.

  He dropped to his knees beside the weapon, Jules’ blood still staining the mud around him. Henri readied the machine gun, his tight around the grip.

  Emmett grabbed the belt of ammunition and kept it level for clean feeding. The mortar fire had stopped, but the silence that followed was worse.

  He scanned the treeline again, his heart hammering in his chest. Something was out there. Watching. Waiting.

  “Get ready.” Emmett said into Henri’s ear as he leaned the German SMG beside him.

  Henri’s face hardened, his finger hovering over the trigger.

  The cold air held its breath, and the rain continued to fall in a trickle.

  The rear line erupted in a cacophony of desperate gunfire, drowning out the eerie silence of the cold night. The crackle of rifles, the deafening staccato of machine guns, and the panicked shouts of men echoed across the village.

  “They’re flanking!” Emmett roared, his voice barely carrying over the relentless noise. His ears were still ringing from the mortars, but there was no mistaking the frantic bursts of gunfire and shouted orders behind them.

  Henri turned sharply, his face pale under the flickering muzzle flashes. “Merde! It sounds as if they’re breaking through!”

  Before either of them could process it, the forest in front of them erupted with its own gunfire. Muzzle flashes lit the darkness like fireflies, and the sharp whine of bullets filled the air as rounds ripped toward the stone wall. The others to the left began firing in response. Their stolen rifles cracking to answer.

  “Get on that goddamn gun!” Emmett bellowed.

  Henri didn’t need to be told twice. He slammed his shoulder into the butt of the MG42, fingers gripping the trigger like a vice. The weapon chattered furiously, its deafening roar drowning out all other sounds as white-hot tracers streaked towards the dark forest. The gunfire ripped into the treeline, chewing through branches, trees, and whatever poor bastards were hiding there.

  The Germans answered back with a vengeance. Bullets slammed into the stone wall, chunks of rock exploding with sharp cracks, sending bits of shrapnel into Emmett’s face and arms. He ducked lower, his heart pounding in his ears as the air around him turned into a hornet’s nest of ricochets and whizzing lead.

  “Last of the belt!” Emmett shouted, his voice hoarse as he fed the final rounds into the machine gun. Henri’s hands were steady, but his face was twisted into a mask of strain as he fought to hold the weapon on target.

  The MG42 ran dry with a metallic “clack” just as Emmett reached for another ammo belt. His fingers worked fast despite the cold, fumbling briefly before yanking the belt free from its crate. Henri smacked the cover open, jammed the belt into place, and charged the weapon with a swift, practiced motion.

  “She’s a whore for ammo.” Emmett shouted as he slapped the crate closed.

  Henri grinned faintly through his tension. “Oui, but she sings beautifully, no?”

  The MG42 roared back to life, its fire carving streaks of light through the night as Henri swept it across the treeline. The German muzzle flashes began to flicker out, but the reprieve was short-lived.

  Through the chaos, a sound rose above the gunfire. A series of deep, feral growls carried on the wind. It wasn’t human. The sound was guttural and wrong, the kind of noise that made the hairs on the back of Emmett’s neck stand on end.

  Henri faltered for a moment, his finger twitching on the trigger. “What in God’s name was that?”

  Emmett’s blood ran cold. He kept his eyes glued to the rear line, his MP40 gripped tightly now, ready for anything. “I don’t know.” he said, practically screaming over the ringing in his ears.

  Gunfire rang out from all sides now, a chaotic symphony of death. The sounds of the French line breaking filled the air. Men screaming, rifles firing in all directions.

  “They’re in!” someone yelled frantically from behind. “The flank is broken! We need to fall back!”

  Emmett’s eyes widened, his head snapping toward the rear. He couldn’t see much, just flashes of light as rifles fired wildly into the darkness. The shouts and screams painted a grim picture in his mind.

  “How the hell did they breach that fast?” He muttered in disbelief, his voice barely audible. He saw the others begin to retreat from the wall, and turned to Henri, urgency etched into every line of his face. “Grab the gun, we’re pulling back!”

  Henri didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the smoking-hot barrel of the MG42 with the asbestos gloves, the damp fabric sizzling as it met the steel. “Damn this devil’s gun!” He grunted, yanking the weapon up and cradling it in his arms.

  Emmett grabbed two ammo crates, slinging his MP40 across his chest as the two men began a desperate retreat into the ruins of the village with the rest. Rounds screamed past them like angry hornets, each one too close for comfort. The sticky mud kicked up in small, violent bursts, mingling with splintered wood and rock.

  “Go! Go!” Emmett shouted, shoving Henri ahead of him as they ran for cover. He kept his head down, his boots slipping, his breath coming in ragged bursts that fogged the freezing air.

  The two of them stumbled into a partially collapsed building, a row of sandbags offering some semblance of cover. Henri dropped to his knees, immediately resetting the MG42 on its bipod while Emmett threw the ammo crates down beside him.

  “Ready?” Henri barked, his face slick with sweat despite the cold.

  “Do it!” Emmett snapped, taking position as the assistant gunner.

  The MG42 roared once more, spitting fire as Henri sent a curtain of bullets into the treeline. The weapon’s kick rattled through his body, but he held firm, sweeping the gun back and forth as tracers lit up the darkness like shooting stars.

  From their new position, they had a clearer view of the rear line, and Emmett’s stomach dropped. It was chaos. The flank had collapsed entirely, French fighters pouring out of their fortifications like rats from a sinking ship. Others fired wildly over their shoulders, trying to hold back the advancing Germans.

  The muzzle flashes illuminated brief, fleeting glimpses of figures in the darkness. Emmett squinted, his gut twisting. He couldn’t see them clearly, just shadows moving fast through the ranks of the French fighters.

  “Henri!” Emmett shouted, his voice strained. “Keep your fire on the treeline! Don’t stop!”

  Henri didn’t respond. He was too focused, his teeth bared as he fought to hold the MG42 steady, its deafening roar shaking the very air around them. Emmett kept feeding the belt into the hungry weapon, metal links rattling under his gloves.

  A sudden clap on his shoulder made him jerk his head, He jerked his head, heart kicking, only to find Luc sliding in beside, muck clinging to his greatcoat, his grin grim in the lowlight. Behind him, three more shapes spilled through the rubble. Marcel and a pair of other HeadHunters, their boots crunching over brick and glass.

  “Merde!” Luc barked over the roar of the MG42. He gave Emmett’s shoulder another slap, leaning close so he could be heard above the gunfire. “I am tired of being shat upon.” He jerked his thumb toward Marcel, who had two belts slung around his shoulders like bandoliers, the brass links clinking as he pulled them free.

  “We brought gifts,” Luc shouted, his breath steaming. “Sadly, only these.”

  Emmett snatched one of the fresh belts, sliding the links into the feed tray with quick, practiced fingers. Henri slammed the cover shut with a grunt and the gun shrieked back to life, tracers stitching through the dark like fireflies.

  A burst from the treeline answered, heavy rounds chewing into the ruin with a shower of brick and mortar. Shards pelted their faces, cutting through scarves and stinging exposed skin. Emmett ducked low, cursing under his breath, while Henri hunched over the gun and snarled, firing back in long, savage bursts.

  “Putain de merde!” Henri spat, his mouth full of dust.

  Luc ducked as another streak of bullets ripped overhead, stone splinters skipping across the floor at his boots. He risked a glance over the shattered edge of the wall, flinching back as more rounds cracked against the ruin.

  “You bunch here to support?” Emmett shouted, over the ring in his ears.

  Luc shook his head sharply, the motion quick and grim. “Non! We are to support the flank!” he shouted back. His grin was gone now, replaced by a cold, tight line. “They are moving us like pawns on the chessboard.”

  Henri barked a bitter laugh, never pulling his gaze from the gun sights. “A fine fucking game!” he roared, teeth bared as the MG42 bucked in his grip.

  Luc reached out again, one last pat on both men’s backs, his gloves leaving smears of dirt on their coats. “Best of luck!” he called, his voice almost lost in the thunder of gunfire. Then he turned, slipping back into the night with Marcel and the others close behind, their figures crouched low, darting quickly through the ruin like shadows.

  Emmett risked a glance after them, the sight already swallowed by smoke. He ducked back down as another hail of bullets peppered the wall, stone chips stinging his face. Henri cursed viciously, spat dust from his lips, and yanked the trigger again.

  “Putain!” he snarled, as the MG42 thundered, the weapon’s savage roar rattling through the ruined walls until Emmett swore the stones themselves vibrated. Henri hunched over it, every squeeze of the trigger spitting a line of fire into the treeline. Brass poured from the ejection port in a steady stream, hissing as they struck the muddy ground. The air was thick with acrid smoke, the stench of gunpowder mixing with the sharp tang of hot steel.

  Emmett kept the belt level, guiding the links into the feed tray as smoothly as his shaking hands allowed. His jaw was clenched so tight it ached, his teeth bared in a grimace that was half fury, half survival instinct. Rounds from the treeline slapped into the stonework around them, snapping off chips of brick and spraying their faces with grit.

  Then came a sharp crack inside the gun that wasn’t the right sound, followed by another. Cook-offs. The barrel had gone red-hot, glowing in the dark like the coal of a blacksmith’s forge. Henri cursed savagely as the weapon stuttered, then slung the charging handle back with a violent jerk.

  “New barrel!” he barked, voice raw.

  Emmett was already moving. He slapped the next belt into place on the ground beside him and dug into the kit for the spare barrel. Henri wrenched the latch open, the weapon’s barrel pulled free, as the stink of scorched oil hit Emmett’s nostrils. Henri jammed an empty shell into the breach of the barrel and pulled it free, the glowing steel clattering on the floor beside him.

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  Emmett shoved the fresh barrel into Henri’s waiting hand. Henri slid it home with practiced precision, seating it firmly into the action. His gloves moved with the muscle memory and slammed the latch shut, yanked the charging handle back twice in quick succession, then barked a short laugh as if daring the gun to fail him.

  “She lives once again!” he growled, teeth bared as he squeezed the trigger. The MG42 shrieked again, its murderous voice tearing through the night.

  The belt ran dry with a clatter, the last casing tumbling to the frozen floor. Emmett snatched another from the dwindling pile beside him. Three left, no more. He shoved the brass links into the tray and slapped Henri’s arm. Henri popped the cover, slammed it shut with the heel of his hand, and racked the action.

  The gun had barely roared back to life when fresh gunfire erupted to their right. The sharp wild chatter of an SMG ripped into the ruin, bullets shredding the wall at an angle they hadn’t accounted for. Brick and mortar exploded in a spray, bits of plaster clattered against his helmet.

  Emmett moved like a man possessed, grabbing his MP40, sweat mixing with the grime and blood on his face as he fired burst after burst with the weapon. Each shot was met with an answering hail of rounds. Henri spun around with the heavy German machinegun, seized the bipod with his left hand, took a knee, and fired a furious burst of rounds towards the unseen attacker.

  A sudden chatter erupted from a nearby window, sending splinters flying as rounds chewed through the frame. Emmett turned sharply, his instincts guiding him as he leveled the MP40 and sent a quick burst through the window, peppering the building with rounds until the snarl of his gunfire overtook the enemy’s. For a split second, he swore he heard a low, guttural growl from inside. Not a man’s voice. Something else.

  Emmett yanked a German grenade from his belt, the familiar, comforting weight of the “potato masher” in his hand. He tugged the ripcord and flung it through.

  “Catch that, you bastards!” He roared.

  There was a brief pause. Then a scuffle of boots inside, as if someone had realized too late what was coming. The explosion punched the air, the building shaking from the force and sprayed dust and glass from the shattered windows.

  He barely had time to turn when he heard Henri groan. Emmett glanced down and found his comrade slumped awkwardly against the wall, one hand clutching his backside. Henri’s face was contorted in pain, French curses spilling out like a flood.

  “The bastard! The bastard shot me in the ass! I cannot believe it!” Henri wailed, glaring over his shoulder as though personally offended. “Mon dieu! What an undignified place to be shot!”

  Emmett grabbed him roughly by the shoulder, his face set with grim urgency. “You can cry later, we need to move!” He barked, hauling Henri to his feet.

  Henri groaned again but tightened his grip on the MG42, slipping the stock under his armpit. “Merde! How is this my life…” He said wincing, slinging the smoking weapon and leaning on Emmett as they stumbled forward.

  “What an undignified place to be shot.” Henri muttered again, pained but indignant.

  “Better than getting shot in the balls.” Emmett shot back with a faint grin, his voice strained but steady. He slung belts of ammo over his shoulder, gripping the MP40 tightly in his free hand, ready to fire from the hip if needed.

  Henri’s pained groan turned into a reluctant chuckle. “I suppose there is that.”

  Suddenly, Emmett froze, his instincts screaming at him. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement. A flicker of a shadow darting through the haze of gunfire. He shoved Henri to the ground and fired to where he saw the movement. Shell casings scattering on the ground.

  Henri landed with a fresh shout of pain. “Putain! You try to save me, but you break me instead!”

  Emmett ignored him, his gaze locked on the building ahead. “Get moving, Henri! Set that gun up somewhere and cover me!” He glanced over to see Henri dragging himself along the ground, cursing in between pained breaths as he hauled the MG42 into position.

  “Everywhere!” Henri yelled, his voice panicked. “They are everywhere!”

  A sudden burst of fire whipped out from around the corner, rounds screaming toward Emmett like a swarm of angry hornets. He ducked back behind cover, his heart hammering as he jammed a fresh magazine into the MP40. The heavy thump of bullets striking the stone wall.

  “Jesus Christ!” Emmett yelled, ducking low as hot fragments showered down on him. With one smooth motion, he fired another burst, forcing the enemy back.

  Henri, now prone began firing. The MG42 roared to life, its brutal chatter echoing off the broken buildings as tracers streaked through the dark. He shouted triumphantly. “Emmett! I got one!” “I got the bastard!”

  “Keep firing!” Emmett shouted over his shoulder, sweat dripping down his face. He didn’t have time to celebrate. More footsteps, quick, deliberate sounded from inside the building next to him.

  A burst of fire exploded from the window, sending wooden splinters and shards of glass raining down. Emmett felt the rounds whip just over his head. Swearing, he jerked his MP40 upward and blindly fired into the window.

  The weapon barked furiously until the magazine clicked empty. “Fuck!” he growled, yanking the mag free and fumbling for another. The clatter of boots to his right made his blood run cold.

  The German he had been firing at earlier slipped around the edge of the building, weapon ready to finish the job. Emmett made a split-second decision. He turned, shoved himself up, and dove through the open window, landing hard on the wooden floor inside.

  The impact rattled his bones, knocking the wind out of him. Groaning, he twisted onto his back, his trembling hands shoving a fresh magazine into the MP40.

  He had to cover Henri…

  Then he heard it… A sharp, ragged gasp.

  Emmett rolled over instinctively, his eyes locking onto a dark silhouette standing near the far corner of the room. The dim light barely illuminated the figure, but he saw enough. It was tall, its shoulders hunched in a way that seemed predatory. Its hands clenched against its chest.

  For a heartbeat, the thing just stared at him.

  “Fuck you!” Emmett spat, pulling the trigger. The MP40’s muzzle flashed, lighting the room like a strobe. The silhouette jerked violently as the rounds slammed into it, its body twisting with the impact. It stumbled backward, letting out a sound. A mix between a snarl and a scream before collapsing into a heap.

  Emmett didn’t wait to confirm the kill. He staggered to his feet, his boots slipping slightly on the damp wood. Outside, Henri’s MG42 was still chattering, the man roaring with defiance as the gunfire echoed through the streets. But then a chatter of gunfire nearby.

  Henri let out a gasp, sharp and pained, and the machinegun fell quiet.

  Emmett froze, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end.

  “Henri?” He called, his voice barely above a whisper.

  He heard movement outside. Heavy boots and deep, guttural voices speaking in harsh German. The words had a growl to them, a feral cadence that made Emmett’s blood run cold.

  “He’s inside!” one of them barked. “He went through the window!”

  The sound of shuffling boots followed. Emmett’s gut twisted as he heard something clink against the floorboards.

  His heart dropped.

  Grenade.

  He barely had time to react. Throwing himself into the far corner of the room, he shielded his face with his arms as the grenade exploded. The blast rocked the building, fire and debris erupting in every direction. The force sent him sprawling, his ears ringing violently as smoke filled the room.

  Emmett coughed and rolled onto his stomach, the acrid scent of explosives burning his lungs. Dust and splinters rained down, and through the haze, he could hear them. Those heavy footsteps, getting closer.

  The door burst open as two figures barreled into the room like freight trains. Emmett barely had time to react. His submachinegun was already up and firing on instinct. The weapon’s bark filled the room, muzzle flashes lighting up jagged, twisted shadows.

  The first figure dropped with a guttural grunt, its bulk crashing onto the floor with a dull thud. The second vanished into the kitchen, its movement quick and low, almost predatory.

  “Bastard’s fast.” Emmett hissed, panting as he scanned the room, keeping his back against a wall. A sharp pain nagged at his back where grenade shrapnel had embedded itself earlier, but he shoved the discomfort aside.

  He sat up quickly, feeling the weight of his nearly empty MP40. “I’m going to scalp you, you son of a bitch!” Emmett roared in German, his voice bouncing off the wooden walls.

  From the rear of the house, an unnervingly calm voice answered him “Then come and do it, little man!”

  The voice was smooth yet guttural, the kind that crawled under the skin. It didn’t sound human… Not quite… But it was close. Emmett frowned, trying to steady his breathing, his finger hovering near the MP40’s trigger. His eyes darted toward the doorframe where he’d seen the second figure disappear.

  “Why the hell aren’t you shooting at me?” He muttered to himself. Hoping he had somehow damaged his opponent’s weapon.

  His question was answered by a sudden crash. A tin dish slammed into the wall with a metallic clang, followed by a pot bouncing and rolling loudly across the floor. The racket sent dust trickling from the cracked ceiling.

  “Quit being a bitch!” Emmett barked back in German, keeping his voice low but steady.

  A sound drifted back. laughter. A strange, unnatural chuckle that rose and fell in a nervous rhythm, edged with both amusement and pain.

  Emmett’s jaw tightened. The bastard was toying with him, but it sounded hurt.

  He had seconds to decide. He needed to reload, only having a few rounds. But reloading the MP40 would be risky. Possibly giving his opponent a window. So, Emmett made his move. He sucked in a deep breath, slammed the butt of the gun against the wall to push himself upright, and bolted toward the kitchen doorframe.

  His boots pounded across the wooden floorboards, the sound echoing in the ruined house. Just as he cleared the door, the moonlight streaming through the window illuminated a silhouette. A tall, hulking figure standing with one shoulder slumped. Emmett’s finger squeezed the trigger, the last few rounds tearing free from the MP40’s barrel.

  The figure staggered, jerking backward as at least one bullet clipped its arm. But before Emmett could even register the hit, the creature lunged forward with an inhuman burst of speed, slamming into him like a runaway bull.

  The impact hurled Emmett backward, his back slamming hard against the floorboards. The wind exploded from his lungs, and his skull cracked against the wood with a dull “thud” knocking his helmet free. Stars burst in his vision, pain radiating through his entire body as the weapon slipped from his grasp and clattered uselessly to the floor.

  Not good. Not good! Emmett’s mind screamed as his muscles tensed reflexively.

  He lashed out blindly with a booted foot, his heel driving squarely into what he hoped was a knee. The figure snarled. A sound that was distinctly feral, and crumpled forward with a yelp, crashing down beside him.

  Emmett’s hand flew to his belt, his fingers fumbling for the handle of his knife. Another explosion rocked the house outside, shaking the walls and showering the room in a fresh layer of dust and splinters. Moonlight poured in through a gaping hole in the ceiling, illuminating the chaos for a fleeting second.

  Emmett rolled to his side, the knife finally in hand. He lunged toward the figure sprawled next to him, grabbing a fistful of its collar with one hand while raising the blade to strike. But before he could bring it down, a clawed hand shot up, seizing his wrist with crushing strength.

  Emmett’s eyes widened as the hand squeezed, the fur-covered back of it gleaming faintly in the moonlight. Claws… actual claws curled around his arm, the tips biting into his skin. He gritted his teeth, his other fist flying upward to deliver a savage punch into the dark where he saw a glint of eyes.

  The creature snarled in defiance, shoving him back with a strength that sent him sliding across the floorboards. Emmett slammed to a stop against the far wall, his chest heaving as he scrambled to his feet, knife still in hand.

  From the darkness, the figure emerged. Its movements were deliberate and confident, its heavy boots thudding softly against the wooden floor. The moonlight caught its form as it stepped fully into view, and Emmett’s heart nearly stopped.

  It was tall. At least a head taller than him, and dressed in a torn, blood-smeared German uniform. The material stretched over its monstrous frame. Its massive shoulders hunched forward slightly, one arm hanging limp at its side where Emmett’s bullet had struck.

  Then its face appeared in the light.

  It had a head of a wolf, its long snout pulled into a half-snarl that exposed sharp, fangs. Its ears twitched, alert and predatory, while its piercing amber eyes locked onto Emmett with an intelligence that made his blood run cold. Sclera like a human, but not quite. Alien. Dangerous. The fur around its neck bristled like a mane, matted with sweat, dirt, and blood.

  “What the fuck?” Emmett whispered, his voice barely audible. He blinked hard, his mind trying to process what looked like a werewolf, standing before him.

  The creature tilted its head, the motion eerily human. Its lips curled into something resembling a grin, though it was more teeth than smile.

  “What’s wrong?” It said in flawless German, its voice deep and mocking, tinged with amusement. “You’ve never seen one of us before?”

  The wolfman lunged with knife.

  Emmett barely had time to roll to the side as the creature’s blade slashed down, burying itself in the wooden floor where he’d been crouched. He swung his own knife wildly, catching the beast in the shoulder. The wolf growled sharply, its massive hand swatting Emmett with enough force to send him sprawling again.

  “Stay still, little man.” It snarled, stalking toward him, its boots thudding against the floor.

  Emmett scrambled backward, gripping his knife so hard his knuckles turned white. He forced himself onto his feet, his chest heaving as he backed toward the ruined kitchen door. His mind raced as he took in the creature’s wounded shoulder and its awkward limp.

  It could bleed.

  “You’re… just a man in a fucking costume.” Emmett growled in German, forcing his voice to steady. “That’s all you are.”

  The creature laughed, a low, guttural sound that reverberated through the room. “Keep telling yourself that.” It mocked. “Maybe you’ll feel different when I rip your throat out.”

  The two circled each other like a pair of predators. The creature’s movements were slow and deliberate now, its injuries slowing it down. Emmett’s grip tightened on his knife as sweat beaded on his brow.

  The Wolfman lunged again, its hulking form blurring with a mix of speed and savagery. Emmett barely dove out of the way, the creature’s claws slashing through empty air as they narrowly missed tearing into his back. The momentum sent Emmett sprawling across the floor, splinters of wood scraping his face as he crashed into a half-broken table.

  The Wolfman wheeled around with surprising agility for its wounded state, the heavy thuds of its boots echoing through the wrecked building. Its sharp teeth glinted as it snarled, low and guttural.

  Emmett pushed himself up with a groan, knife gripped tight. “Come on, you ugly son of a bitch.” He spat, his eyes fixed on the creature.

  The Wolfman’s growl deepened, reverberating through the walls, and it lunged again. Emmett braced, slashing wildly as the beast came at him. The blade found fabric first, then flesh. A cut across its side that earned a yelp of pain. But before Emmett could capitalize, a clawed hand swiped across his chest, ripping through his jacket and raking deep grooves across his ribs. The impact sent him stumbling, his boots catching on loose boards.

  “Goddammit!” Emmett coughed, staggering to his feet.

  The creature came at him again…Relentless. This time, Emmett ducked low and spun to the side, his knife striking down in a desperate jab. The blade bit deep into its flank, and the Wolfman let out a sharp snarl of pain, twisting to swat him aside. Emmett hit the floor hard, landing on his shoulder with a loud crack that made him see stars.

  The knife slipped from his grasp, skidding across the floorboards into the shadows.

  “Shit.” Emmett hissed, his lungs heaving as he pushed himself up.

  The Wolfman advanced, blood dripping from its fresh wound. Its breaths came heavy now, each exhale sounding like a snarl. “You fight like a rat.” It growled mockingly in German.

  Emmett’s gaze darted around for a weapon. Anything. His fingers found purchase on a splintered section of wood that had broken free from the floor. He grabbed it and swung hard as the creature lunged again, the makeshift club cracking across the beast’s side with a hollow thud. The Wolfman staggered forward, its injured arm dragging along the ground.

  “You son of a…” Emmett grunted, swinging again. This time, the wood struck the creature’s head, splintering further on impact. The beast dropped to a knee with a strangled yelp, its good hand clawing at the floor as it tried to recover.

  Before Emmett could swing again, the Wolfman shot upward, its uninjured hand seizing him by the collar. Emmett choked as the grip yanked him clean off his feet, slamming him onto the floor with enough force to knock the wind out of him. The weight of the creature pressed down, pinning him. Its one good arm locked around his throat.

  Emmett’s face turned red as the Wolfman strangled him, the pressure cutting off his air. He gasped, his arms flailing, fists pounding uselessly against the beast’s forearm. His blows struck the spot where he’d shot it earlier, and the creature winced, baring its teeth through the pain. But its grip didn’t loosen.

  Emmett’s vision swam. Dark spots crept at the edges of his sight, and panic bloomed in his chest as he realized he was losing. He bucked and kicked, his boots scraping uselessly against the floor, but the Wolfman held firm. Its cold amber eyes bore into him. Merciless and triumphant.

  Then the creature shifted.

  To Emmett’s horror, the Wolfman’s injured arm began moving, the clawed hand reaching for his face. A finger tipped with a long, filthy claw, began to slowly descend toward his left eye.

  “No.” Emmett wheezed, his voice barely audible. His arms shook with exertion as he pushed against the beast’s hand, every muscle in his body screaming in defiance.

  The claw inched closer. Emmett’s face contorted in rage and desperation as he fought to free himself, but it was like wrestling iron. His screams turned guttural as he thrashed beneath the beast’s weight, his body bucking against the floorboards.

  The tip of the claw touched the edge of his eyelid. Emmett let out a wordless howl of fury, his left-hand flailing across the floor, searching desperately. He didn’t know what he was reaching for. He just needed something. Anything.

  Then the claw drove in.

  It didn’t just puncture, it burst through. A wet, obscene pop cracked inside his skull as his left eye collapsed, hot blood spraying down his cheek in a torrent. His scream tore the air raw, breaking from his throat in a ragged, animal bellow as the Wolfman’s claws hooked deeper, raking downward. Flesh split and peeled under the weight of its talons, skin shearing back to the bone. His cheek came apart in ribbons, hot streams of blood soaking his face and collar.

  The stench hit him next. Iron-rich and suffocating, the taste of his own blood flooding his mouth as it dribbled over his lips. He gagged on it, choking, half-drowned in the metallic reek.

  The Wolfman snarled above him, amber eyes burning with triumph. Its rancid breath washed over his face, sour and suffocating. Then it opened its jaws wider, teeth flashing in the dim light, and latched onto his face.

  Agony exploded as its fangs sank into flesh. The beast bit down, ripping and pulling, its jaws working like a dog tearing meat from a carcass. Skin and muscle tore.

  Emmett felt half his face being dragged loose in wet, tearing bursts. His scream was no longer human. Just raw sound, primal and guttural, the fury of a man being devoured alive.

  Then his hand found something solid. A brick.

  With a surge of adrenaline that bordered on madness, Emmett’s swung the brick with all the strength he had, smashing it against the side of the Wolfman’s head. The impact shattered the brick into pieces, sending dust and fragments flying.

  The Wolfman howled, its grip loosening just enough for Emmett to shove it off him. He gasped for air, his hand clamping over his ruined, bloody face as he rolled onto his knees.

  “You son of a bitch!” Emmett snarled, his voice hoarse and ragged. Through blurred vision, he spotted his knife lying among the rubble.

  The Wolfman, dazed and bleeding, reached for him, its claws swiping weakly at his leg. Emmett kicked free, scrambling forward. His fingers closed around the hilt of his knife, and he spun back to face the creature.

  It was rising to its feet, its chest heaving with exertion. Rage twisted its lupine features as it stared Emmett down, its good hand clenching.

  Emmett’s remaining eye burned with hatred. Without hesitation, he charged forward, shoulder lowered. The impact drove the Wolfman back, slamming it into a crumbling wall with a sickening crack. The beast snarled in pain, collapsing to the ground, but Emmett didn’t stop.

  He pounced on it, his knife driving into the bicep of its good arm before it could react. The Wolfman howled, its claws sinking into Emmett’s shoulder, tearing through his jacket and flesh, but Emmett didn’t care. Adrenaline seemed to cancel out the pain as his fury, and insanity filled his entire being. He wanted to not only kill this creature, he wanted to destroy it completely.

  He wrenched the knife free and struck again. And again.

  The Wolfman caught the blade with its palm, blood dripping from its trembling fingers as it fought to stop him. Its face was twisted in desperation as it snarled at him, amber eyes blazing.

  “You might kill me!” It growled in a guttural voice, gasping with exertion. “But you’ll never forget what I did to you! I claimed your eye, ruined your face!”

  Emmett’s face contorted with raw fury and madness. “Fuck you!” He roared, his voice shaking with pain and rage. He shoved his entire weight into the blade, driving it forward with a final, brutal push.

  The knife sank deep into the Wolfman’s throat.

  Its eyes went wide with shock as blood gushed from the wound, spilling down around its neck and pooling on the floor below. The creature sputtered and choked, its body jerking as it tried, and failed to draw breath. Emmett didn’t stop. He yanked the blade free and sawed violently at the creature’s neck, his own blood dripping onto its fur as his ruined face twisted in a snarl.

  When it finally fell still, Emmett collapsed backward onto the floor. His body trembled with exhaustion and adrenaline, his breaths ragged and uneven as he clapped a hand over his destroyed eye.

  “Fuck!” He roared, his scream echoing through the ruined building. Tears mixed with the blood on his face as agony washed over him. He sucked in a shuddering breath, gasping as fresh pain ripped through his skull.

  Outside, the gunfire was fading. Emmett pushed himself upright, his lone eye darting around for his weapon. He found the MP40 amid the rubble, reloaded it with trembling hands, and staggered like a drunk man toward the door.

  The cold night air bit into his torn face as he stepped outside. Around him, French fighters stumbled through the street, casting weary, haunted looks at him. A few spared glances at his bloodied face, their expressions filled with grim understanding.

  Emmett’s gaze fell on Henri, lying still over the MG42, riddled with bullet holes. His breath caught in his throat, his body swaying from pain and exhaustion as he knelt beside his fallen comrade.

  “Christ, Henri.” He muttered, his voice cracking under the strain. His words were barely audible, swallowed by the oppressive silence of the ruined village.

  Then it hit him.

  A sharp, searing pain radiated from his ruined eye, blossoming across his cheek with a ferocity that made him double over. He clutched his bloodied face with trembling hands, his breath hitching as the agony surged. The throbbing turned into a relentless pounding, each pulse sharper than the last, like white-hot nails being driven into his skull.

  “Fuck!” He gasped, his voice rising into a strained cry. His knees buckled, and he collapsed forward, his hands splayed out in the dirt as his body trembled uncontrollably. His breaths came in ragged bursts, and he clenched his teeth, trying to stifle the scream that threatened to rip from his throat.

  The pain only grew worse. It was unrelenting, an all-consuming fire that spread through his head and down his neck, making him feel like he was being torn apart from the inside. Tears streamed down his face, mingling with the blood as he let out a strangled groan.

  His good eye flicked to Henri, hoping for…What? He didn’t know. Some kind of anchor, something to hold on to in the storm of agony. Henri’s pale, lifeless eyes stared blankly ahead, the corners of his mouth slack, his blood-soaked uniform still.

  But then Henri twitched.

  Emmett froze, his body trembling as he stared at the corpse. He blinked, trying to clear his blurred vision, convinced it was just the pain playing tricks on him. But Henri moved again. This time more deliberately. His fingers twitched, his chest seemed to hitch with an almost imperceptible breath, and then his head turned.

  “Jesus Christ.” Emmett whispered, his voice barely more than a rasp.

  Henri’s face turned fully toward him, his pale, glassy eyes locking onto Emmett’s lone remaining one. His expression softened, and a faint, almost friendly smile spread across his bloodied lips.

  “Time to wake up, mon ami.” Henri said, his tone calm, casual, as though they were sitting across from each other at some café, sharing coffee and cigarettes instead of kneeling in the ruins of a battlefield.

  Emmett’s breath caught in his throat. His body went rigid, the pain momentarily forgotten as a wave of icy disbelief washed over him. His lips parted, but no words came out. His mind reeled, trying to reconcile the impossible sight before him.

  “Wha... what?” he stammered, his voice hoarse and barely audible, his lone eye wide with confusion and fear.

  Emmett’s return to consciousness was slow, like dragging himself out of black water with lungs already burning. His body felt wrong. Heavy, but distant. His thoughts came in broken flashes, sluggish, drifting apart before they could settle. Somewhere beneath it all, something primal stirred, clawing its way to the surface. Maybe it was the Pervitin still ghosting through his blood. Maybe it was stubbornness that bordered on madness. Whatever it was, it was enough to bring him back.

  His eye cracked open.

  He felt pressure across his ribs, something being cinched tight. The blur of a face leaned over him, murmuring words that folded into the haze. A hand tugged his eyelid down, then released him. He tried to speak but his tongue felt like lead. The face shifted away, the sound of boots and clipped voices filling the room.

  Emmett swallowed, tasting metal and blood. He tried to sit up but something across his chest held him down. Panic rose, but the tranquilizer still gripped his veins, dulling his muscles into useless weight. His breathing came ragged and shallow. He turned his head, nausea bubbling up, and forced his mind to focus.

  Voices cut through the fog, sharp and efficient.

  “Der Mann ist halb tot, ich kann nicht sagen, dass ich im Moment sonderlich besorgt bin.”

  Another voice answered, cool and firm. Female. Familiar. “Er… ist… gef?hrlich. Ich sage das nicht im Scherz.”

  A pause, then a resigned reply. “Sehr wohl, Oberschütze.”

  Something shuffled nearby. The sound of fabric, metal.

  “Sehen wir uns Ihre Wunden an. Ich gebe zu, ich bin nicht dafür ausgebildet, mich um die Sturmw?lfe zu kümmern.”

  Emmett’s brow furrowed. The words made sense now. His mind was catching up, piecing together meaning. He could understand them.

  Shapes began to settle into focus. A man in a grey tunic. A cot across the room. A tall figure sitting upon it. Her fur pale beneath the lamplight. Her chest wrapped in fresh white bandages. Her head turned slightly toward him, blue eyes sharp, watching.

  Eira.

  The memory struck him like a blow. The forest. The tranquilizer dart. The betrayal. His breath came fast. He jerked instinctively, trying to sit up, but something held him down. He looked down his chest and saw a leather strap buckled across the bandages binding his ribs. His wrists were locked in manacles, chained to the sides of the cot.

  “Scheint, Ihr Freund ist wach.”

  The words snapped his attention to the speaker, a narrow-faced man standing nearby. His tunic was unbuttoned, his expression mildly amused, as if waking prisoners was a routine inconvenience.

  He clapped his hands together once, then looked toward Eira. “Dress and follow me, Oberschütze. I’ll assign a guard to monitor him.”

  Emmett’s pulse quickened. His thoughts were clear now, sharp. He understood every word. He stayed still, forcing his breathing to steady. Every instinct screamed to fight, to lunge, but his body wouldn’t obey. So, he stayed quiet. Watching.

  Eira pushed herself up with a small groan, stretching her shoulders. She reached for a grey tunic laid over a chair and slipped it on, her movements stiff. She avoided looking at him.

  At the doorway she hesitated. “Just a moment, Stabsarzt Krüger.”

  The doctor paused, glancing back but saying nothing. Eira turned, her ears flicking, and crossed back to him. She crouched beside the cot until her face was level with his. The air between them was tense and still.

  “This is where we part ways, Herr Granger,” she said in slow English. Her tone was flat, drained of warmth or satisfaction.

  Emmett’s single eye fixed on her. He didn’t speak at first. He only breathed, slow and deep, his chest rising under the strap that bound him down. His silence was heavy. Deliberate.

  Eira shifted slightly, her own expression hardening. “I can imagine how you feel,” she said carefully. “But you cannot accuse me of betrayal when I know you would have done the same. Would you have truly gone your own way? I cannot believe it.”

  Emmett exhaled through his nose, a harsh sound that was not quite a laugh. He turned his head toward her, his voice low and steady. “None of that matters now, Eira.” He let the words hang in the air a moment before continuing. “And you know this won’t end here. I’ll see you again. You have my word.”

  Her ears tilted back slightly, but she didn’t flinch. “No, you won’t.” Her reply came sharp and final.

  “You should have just killed me,” Emmett said, his tone stripped of emotion.

  Eira nodded once, slow and deliberate. “Perhaps. I know that’s what you would have preferred.” She paused, studying him as if weighing something unseen. “But this is fitting. As I said before… cooperate, and there may be an end to this for you. A way home.”

  Emmett glared at her. He couldn’t tell if she truly believed what she was saying, or if she was just trying to convince herself. He let out a sharp breath through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching with something caught between disbelief and contempt.

  “You really think that?” he muttered. “You know what they do to men like me, yeah?”

  His voice came low and cold, a quiet venom under the words.

  Eira sighed, her eyes flicked briefly to the strap across his chest, then back to his one steady eye. “Part of me wants to gloat,” she admitted, her voice lowering. “To rub the truth in until it stings.” Her jaw tightened. “But I will be better than you.”

  Emmett’s lips twitched into something that might have been a smirk if there’d been any humor left in him. “Better than me?” he repeated quietly. “We’ll see about that.”

  Her expression didn’t change, but the look in her eyes faltered for a heartbeat. She straightened, her voice soft but resolute. “I honestly wish you well, Emmett.”

  Behind her, Krüger cleared his throat. “If you are ready, Oberschütze.”

  Eira nodded without looking back. She stood to her full height and let out a quiet breath. “Goodbye, Emmett,” she said, final and absolute.

  She turned on her heel and followed the doctor toward the door. The sound of boots echoed briefly, then the latch clicked. The door shut with a heavy thud that felt like a sentence being passed.

  Emmett lay still. The silence pressed in on him.

  Something deep inside him began to coil tight, winding like a spring. His chest rose and fell faster, the muscles in his arms straining against the restraints. He clenched his fists until his knuckles went white.

  The first sound out of him was not a word, but a low, guttural noise that crawled up from his chest. It grew, deepened, until it became a snarl. Then, without warning, he slammed his head back against the cot frame. Once. Twice. The metal rattled with each impact.

  His breathing quickened, ragged, his teeth bared as he yanked against the manacles until his wrists burned. The strap across his chest held firm, the leather creaking under the strain.

  The world shrank to pain, to breath, to the distant ticking of boots beyond the wall. He let out a final, choked laugh that curdled into a growl.

  He forced himself to stillness, every muscle trembling with exhaustion. His eye fixed on the ceiling. As he lay still again, waiting.

  -Elevating_stairs

  -Snud

  -GreenBeanz

  -Pope

  -jassachusetts