As Matt loomed over the young officer, the tension in the war room escalated, but it was abruptly interrupted by the deep voice of Commander Isolde Thorne, one of the six commanders of Special Forces. He stepped forward, his presence commanding attention. 'Matt, stop chewing on him. He's just a low-ranked guy who will get stuck between you and the higher-ups,' Thorne said, a hint of camaraderie lacing his words. Thorne's words dragged Matt back to the last time the leash slipped.
Thorne recognized Matt instantly. They had forged a bond in the fires of their shared experience when Matt rescued him and his remaining men from a dire predicament. Thorne and his team had been attempting to sabotage the Kraelith Empire's supply line—a crucial operation aimed at crippling their enemy's resources. But in a cruel twist of fate, they were captured, the Kraelith hoping to extract vital intel on the Astraellan Dominion. Under immense pressure, they endured brutal interrogations that had already claimed the lives of several of Thorne's men. When Matt arrived, it was as if death itself had manifested, his dark silhouette cutting through the shadows like a predator on the hunt. He came at the perfect moment, just as the last remnants of Thorne's resolve began to crack under the relentless torture.
As he burst through the door, the Kraelith guards barely had time to react. With a sadistic grin stretching across his face, Matt didn't draw the pistols—not with prisoners packed into the room. He went silent and close. One hand clamped over the nearest guard's mouth; the other slid a blade sideways across the throat in a clean, vicious cut. Blood arced, soaking his skin as the man gurgled and crumpled. Two more guards surged—Matt was already moving. A knife snapped from his fingers and buried to the hilt in one man's eye; another blade punched through a second throat. A fourth charged—Matt jammed a pistol's muzzle into the sternum and fired a single contact shot, the body soaking the discharge; he eased the corpse down and holstered, eyes never leaving the room. Chains and bonds came off fast, keys rattling, knives working. 'Down. Stay behind me,' he hissed, shoving the freed captives to the floor against the interior wall, away from the door's arc.
Only when the last prisoner was flat to the floor and the remaining Kraeliths tried to force the corridor did Matt let the guns eat. He bladed into the threshold, muzzle indexed down the hall, angles tight to keep the cell in his dead space. Then the pistols spat energy—short, concussive bursts that tore men backward and painted the hall in ruin. He took a half-step into the corridor to vent the blast forward keeping his muzzle indexed low through the lane to trap ricochet and splash, captives pressed behind the jamb and overturned bedframe. He advanced in a smooth, merciless rhythm, muzzle flashes strobing the carnage as bodies collapsed like severed marionettes. The slaughterhouse was outside the cell, not in it; inside, the work had been quiet and personal, and he wore the proof like a second skin.
Once he had freed Thorne and the remaining men, they slipped into the darkened forest skirting the Kraelith stronghold. The pursuit group—close to a hundred—fanned out to hunt them. Thorne and the others were ragged, bleeding, barely standing. 'Stay down. Don't fire unless someone steps on you,' Matt said, voice flat. He vanished into the trees alone.
He didn't meet the hundred with a wall; he bled them by inches. A flash of his energy pistols from one angle—two, three controlled pulses—then silence and a different angle forty paces deeper. He used deadfall and gullies like a maze, drawing scouts into narrow cuts, dropping them with a single shot or a thrown blade, then sliding away before their friends had a direction to shoot. A stone cracked brush to his left; when the Kraelith rushed it, his real fire came from their rear. The forest turned into a hall of mirrors—hit, move, hit again—until their formation unraveled into clusters of panicked men who couldn't agree on where death was coming from. Fresh cells clicked in on the run; he never let the guns run dry in the open. The terrain pinched them into funnels; every time they tried to wheel and encircle, he was already somewhere else, chewing off another edge of the formation.
Minutes stretched long. Every time they tried to fix him, he was gone—a muzzle flare in one place and a knife whisper in another. He kept their attention fixed on him, away from the wounded he'd hidden, until the ground between the trees was knotted with bodies and scorched earth. At last, a handful remained—six, breathing hard, pride louder than sense. Low on charge and bound by their honor-rites, they stepped into a clearing and called him out, demanding he face them without the ghosts and gunfire. Matt holstered the pistols, rolled his shoulders, and walked in. The first came fast; Matt came faster—an elbow up under the jaw, a heel to the knee, bone popping like wet wood. He caught the second by the collarbone, drove a head-butt through his nose, and let him sag before carving a short line across his throat with a knife that appeared in Matt's hand like a thought. The third swung high; Matt buried the blade in his ribs and rode him down, twisting free as hot spray painted his forearm. Fourth tried to grapple; Matt used him as a shield—three steps, a pivot—and the fifth's blade meant for Matt opened his friend from hip to belly. The last one backed away, whispering something that wasn't a prayer. Matt didn't let him finish—two steps, a forearm across the windpipe, a final, efficient thrust.
When the dust finally settled, the once-proud Kraelith pursuit group lay shattered at his feet, their bodies strewn about like discarded toys. Matt stood amidst the carnage, bathed in blood, the crimson fluid clinging to him like a second skin. He looked comfortable in it, a predator at ease in his natural habitat. Rumors spoke of him in hushed tones among the Astraellan Dominion, a warrior revered for his unyielding ferocity. To the Kraelith, he was a demon, a name whispered with dread across their ranks. Turning to Thorne and the remaining men—their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and admiration—Matt knew they had survived, but at what cost? The line between savior and monster had blurred, and in that moment, he realized he had embraced his darker nature fully.
Since that day, a bond had formed between Thorne and Matt—born not out of camaraderie in the traditional sense, but out of mutual respect forged in the crucible of battle. Thorne owed Matt his life, and that of his remaining men, and while their relationship was never overly sentimental, there was an understanding between them.
Now, standing in the command room, Thorne's intervention wasn't just a formality—it was his way of preventing Matt from pushing too far. Matt clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowing, but he didn't respond immediately. He knew Thorne was right. The young officer wasn't the problem. Still, Matt couldn't shake the impatience that gnawed at him, the urge to dive headfirst back into the fray where he felt most alive. Thorne stepped closer, his gaze steady, softened by the bond they shared. 'I get it, Matt. Trust me, I do. But picking a fight with command isn't going to get you back out there any faster.'
Matt blew out a puff of smoke, letting the cigarette burn between his fingers; the vent hood growled overhead, dragging the haze away from the boards. The habit had rooted itself in him during the war, a way to calm his nerves and sharpen his focus. His irritation simmered, but Thorne's words cut through it. The commander had seen him at his worst, and they both knew what it took to survive the hell they were in. It wasn't about hierarchy or orders anymore—it was about making it through another day without losing what little humanity they had left. 'You know I can't just sit around, Thorne,' Matt said, his voice rough but calmer now. 'This city's a graveyard, and you want me to wait around for some breeder or play politics with the brass? I've got to be out there.'
Thorne nodded, understanding the raw need in Matt's words. 'I know, but we've got to be smart about this. I can't afford to lose you, not when the real fight's coming. We both know what's out there. The Kraelith are just the start. And for those who've been left behind, like the reserve veterans and medics—some of them are trying to survive in a city that's become a drug-infested hellhole and a market for slavery. We need every capable soldier we can get.'
The commander's words hit harder than any reprimand. Thorne had lost nearly all of his men in that nightmare interrogation. He had seen the brutality of war up close, and he knew Matt was one of the few soldiers who had truly embraced the darkness necessary to survive. Yet even in that darkness, Thorne had come to trust Matt's instincts. If Matt was pushing this hard to return to the front, there was a reason beyond the bloodlust that drove them both. Matt grunted, finally nodding. 'Alright,' he said, his tone easing as the tension began to fade. 'But don't expect me to sit around for long.'Thorne gave a small, grim smile, knowing full well that Matt wouldn't. 'I wouldn't dream of it.'