Kane groaned as he tried to move. His entire body screamed in protest.

Pain—sharp, raw, unbearable—tore through him the moment he shifted.

He could feel it in his ribs, in his legs, in his arms.

Something was broken. No, everything was broken.

But he had to move.

He had to stand.

With a slow, shaky breath, Kane pressed his palms against the filthy floor and tried to push himself up.

His arms trembled. His muscles felt like dead weight.

The pain in his ribs flared, sending a violent shudder through his body.

His vision blurred. The world spun.

His arms buckled. He collapsed back onto the cold stone.

He lay there for a moment, panting. Sweat rolled down his face, mixing with the blood on his skin.

The cell was dark, damp. The stench of rot and rusted iron filled the air.

Chains hung from the walls, stained with old blood.

Kane forced himself to take another breath, trying to block out the pain.

He had been trained to endure.

To withstand torture.

But this was different. This was worse.

His body wasn't just battered—it was broken.

And the worst part?

He didn't know if he could still fight.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside the cell.

Kane stiffened. His breath caught in his throat.

The Red Hand guards were coming back.

Coming to finish what they started.

No.

His fingers curled into fists. Rage boiled in his chest.

He had sworn a promise.

Not to the Dictator—not to the liar he once admired—but to himself.

To his team.

He wasn't going to die in this cell.

He wasn't going to be another forgotten name in a shallow grave.

He was going to stand.

He was going to fight.

With a growl of pain, Kane tried again.

He pressed his palms into the floor.

His arms trembled violently, muscles screaming, bones grinding.

He pushed past it.

His broken ribs stabbed into his lungs, every breath like fire in his chest.

His legs felt like lead, barely responding as he shifted his weight.

His vision darkened at the edges. His body begged him to stop.

He didn't.

With one final push—**one last act of defiance—**he forced himself upright.

Standing.

Shaking.

Barely breathing.

But standing.

The heavy iron door swung open with a deafening creak.

A Red Hand officer stepped inside, his eyes narrowing.

He expected to find a broken man on the floor.

Instead, he found Kane—standing.

Battered. Bloodied.

But still standing.

The officer smirked. "Still got some fight left in you?"

Kane gritted his teeth.

The war wasn't over.

Not yet.



Kane's breath was ragged, each inhale a battle against the stabbing pain in his ribs. He could feel the sharp edges of broken bone shifting beneath his skin, grinding together with every movement. His body was wrecked, a canvas of bruises, cuts, and deep purple welts from the beating he had endured. The damp cold of the cell clung to him, seeping into his muscles like ice, numbing the pain but not enough to make it bearable. His head throbbed, his vision swimming in and out of focus as he locked his legs beneath him, willing himself to stay upright. His knees threatened to buckle, but he refused to let them. He had come too far.

The Red Hand officer standing before him took slow, deliberate steps into the cell, his boots scraping against the stone floor. The dim overhead bulb flickered, casting eerie shadows against the walls as the man studied Kane with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. He was a veteran of these halls, a man who had seen countless prisoners crumble under his hands, who had heard the desperate pleas for mercy, the cries of broken men. Yet here Kane stood, barely holding himself together, but standing all the same. It was not defiance the officer saw in Kane's eyes—it was something far worse. It was determination.

The officer exhaled sharply, unimpressed but intrigued. "You really don't know when to quit, do you?" His voice was edged with condescension, as if speaking to a foolish child who had yet to learn his lesson. He took another step forward, tilting his head, waiting for Kane to collapse again, to give in to the inevitable. But Kane didn't move, didn't speak. He simply stared back, his breathing heavy, his jaw clenched so tight it ached.

The silence stretched between them, thick with tension. Then, without warning, the officer struck.

A fist crashed into Kane's gut, sending another wave of agony through his broken ribs. His body convulsed, his vision flashing white-hot with pain as the force of the blow nearly sent him back to the ground. But at the last second, he caught himself. His boots skidded against the stone floor, his back slamming into the damp wall of the cell as he fought to stay upright. He refused to fall. Not now. Not ever.

The officer narrowed his eyes, a flicker of frustration crossing his face. "You should be on your knees," he muttered, more to himself than to Kane. He grabbed Kane by the collar, jerking him forward so their faces were inches apart. "You think you're stronger than the others? That you're special?" His breath was hot and stank of stale cigarettes. "You're just another dead man waiting for a bullet."

Kane didn't react. He barely even blinked. The officer's words were meaningless noise, a weak attempt to break him down further. But Kane had already been broken before—a long time ago. This was nothing. His body might have been on the verge of shutting down, but his mind was clearer than ever.

Then, slowly, painfully, he smirked.

The officer's grip on his collar tightened, his lip curling in irritation. "You think this is funny?" He pulled Kane in closer, lowering his voice to a venomous whisper. "I will make you beg before this is over. You will crawl. You will scream. And when I let you die, you will thank me for it."

Kane's smirk widened, a flicker of blood staining his teeth. "You talk too much," he rasped, his voice hoarse from dehydration and pain. "Just get it over with already."

The officer's eyes darkened, his amusement vanishing, replaced by a cold, simmering fury. He shoved Kane back against the wall, turning toward the guards outside the cell. "Bring in the tools," he ordered. "Let's see how long this one lasts."

Kane exhaled slowly, his hands curling into fists despite the pain radiating through his arms. He knew what was coming. More pain, more suffering, more attempts to shatter what little strength he had left. But what the officer didn't realize—what none of them realized—was that Kane had already decided he wouldn't break.

They could rip him apart piece by piece, bleed him dry, leave him in darkness for days on end—but he would not break.

Because he wasn't fighting for himself.

He was fighting for Specter.

And they were coming.

The officer smirked as the heavy iron door creaked open, and two Red Hand enforcers stepped in, carrying a rusted metal toolbox between them. The scent of oil and dried blood clung to the air, thick and suffocating. Kane knew what was inside—blades, clamps, electric prods, and other instruments designed to peel the humanity from a man one scream at a time.

One of the guards crouched and unlatched the toolbox, the metallic snap echoing in the small, suffocating cell. The officer didn't even look back at Kane as he spoke. "This is your last chance," he said, rolling his sleeves up past his elbows. "Give us the names of your allies, and I'll make this quick."

Kane let out a slow breath through his nose. His body was barely holding together, his vision blurry, his strength draining like water slipping through his fingers. But still, he smiled.

"You should've checked your six," he rasped.

The officer frowned, his head tilting slightly in confusion.

Then the lights flickered—and died.

The cell plunged into absolute darkness.

And then all hell broke loose.

The first thing Kane heard was a muffled grunt—then a sharp, wet crunch as bone shattered. A body crumpled to the floor, followed by the slick sound of a knife being yanked free from flesh.

A gun clicked. The officer barely had time to react before a single, suppressed shot whispered through the air, embedding itself straight into the forehead of the nearest Red Hand enforcer. He collapsed backward, his lifeless body hitting the wall with a sickening thud.

Kane knew exactly who it was before they even spoke.

Ghost.

A shadow in the dark, a killer unseen until it was too late.

The officer staggered back, his hand fumbling for his sidearm, his breath ragged with sudden fear. He swung wildly in the dark, but a second figure moved in.

Velkan.

Faster than lightning, he seized the officer's wrist, twisting it with brutal precision. A sickening snap echoed through the room as the bone fractured, followed by a guttural scream. The officer's pistol clattered to the floor, useless.

Before he could even process the pain, a boot slammed into the side of his knee. Velkan drove him down onto his back, his combat knife flashing as it plunged deep into the officer's chest. The man spasmed, gasping, his mouth filling with blood as his body convulsed.

Velkan twisted the blade.

Then yanked it free.

The officer's body stilled.

Dead.

A flashlight flickered to life, the dim beam cutting through the darkness. Kane winced as the light landed on his face, his battered body illuminated in its weak glow. Doc knelt beside him immediately, his medical bag already open.

"Shit," Doc muttered, scanning over Kane's injuries. "You look like you just went three rounds with a goddamn tank."

Kane let out a painful chuckle, his voice hoarse. "Feels like it too."

"Don't move," Doc ordered, his voice tight with controlled urgency. He pulled out a syringe, injecting Kane with a mild stimulant to keep him conscious. "We need to get you out of here before more of them show up."

Ghost stood near the doorway, her silenced pistol raised, her body a tense silhouette in the darkness. "We've got maybe five minutes before they realize something's wrong." Her voice was a whisper, cold and efficient. "We need to move."

Velkan wiped his blade clean on the dead officer's uniform before nodding. "Agreed. Doc, can he walk?"

Doc sighed, his hands already wrapping Kane's ribs with a tight bandage to keep his broken bones in place. "Barely." He looked down at Kane. "Think you can stand, or do we carry your ass out?"

Kane clenched his jaw. Every inch of his body screamed in agony. His muscles were stiff, his ribs grinding with every breath, his legs trembling under their own weight. But despite the unbearable pain, despite the overwhelming exhaustion, he knew one thing—

He was not leaving here like a broken man.

Slowly, painfully, he shifted, using the wall to brace himself. Doc moved to help, but Kane grunted. "I got it."

With a sharp breath, he pushed himself up—every nerve in his body igniting in protest. His knees nearly buckled, his vision swam, but he stayed on his feet.

Velkan smirked. "Stubborn bastard."

Ghost handed him a pistol. "Let's go before we all end up in chains."

Kane took it, his grip weak but steady. He glanced down at the dead officer, at the toolbox of torture instruments that would never be used again.

Then he looked up at his team—the only family he had left.

He took a slow, painful step forward.

They weren't just escaping.

They were going to finish this war.

And the Dictator was next.





The city was alive with tension, the kind that seeped into the cracks of every building, every alleyway, thick as smog. From the shadows of a crumbling rooftop, a lone figure crouched, watching the Red Hand facility from afar.

The compound had gone dark. Something had happened inside. The patrols were erratic, moving with the desperation of men who had lost control. Their voices crackled through radios, hurried and filled with urgency.

The operative adjusted the scope on their rifle, scanning the perimeter. Bodies lay slumped near the gates—fresh kills. Someone had cut through the guards like a phantom.

A smirk tugged at their lips. Specter.

They tapped a finger to their earpiece, activating a secure channel. "Watcher One to Sentinel, do you copy?"

A brief moment of static, then a voice crackled through. "Sentinel here. Report."

The operative's gaze flicked toward the northern exit of the facility, where three shadowy figures moved with practiced efficiency. A fourth stumbled slightly, favoring his side—injured, but moving.

"They're out," the operative murmured. "Looks like Specter just tore through one of the Dictator's hellholes." They adjusted their grip on the rifle. "They've got wounded."

"Can they make it to an extraction point?"

The operative hesitated. The streets were still crawling with Red Hand patrols. The alarm had been raised, and the Dictator's forces weren't known for their mercy. If Specter didn't move fast, they'd be cornered before they even got ten blocks out.

"They'll need help," the operative finally said. "We're moving in."

"Negative, Watcher. Maintain your position. We can't risk exposing ourselves."

A flicker of irritation passed through the operative. Orders. Always orders. They exhaled slowly, gripping the rifle a little tighter. "And if they get caught?"

A pause. Then Sentinel's voice came through, colder than before.

"Then they die as martyrs. But they do not fall into enemy hands."

The operative's jaw clenched. It was a calculated response, a strategic move that made sense on paper. But down there, in the cold streets where blood stained the pavement, things weren't so black and white.

They had followed Specter's movements for weeks, waiting for a chance to make contact. They weren't just another fireteam of rebels—they were the resistance's best chance.

And the Dictator knew it.

The operative scanned the roads again, tracking Specter's movement. More Red Hand patrols were converging nearby, fast.

The team wouldn't make it out alone.

Screw the orders.

"I'm going dark," the operative muttered, cutting the comm line before Sentinel could argue.

Then, without hesitation, they disappeared into the night.