Leyla's fingers tightened around the steering wheel in frustration, the leather warm and worn.
She drove down the crooked dirt road.
No signs.
No reception.
No soul in sight.
Two hours. A hundred miles.
And the GPS?
Still says "Proceed farther."
She muttered, half under her breath,
"Of course some shameless, jobless, ugly grown-up man prank calls to order food in some Twilight Zone—and my greedy boss thought I should still deliver it."
She sighed.
"Jerk," she added bitterly.
Then a loud pop sound came out,
causing the car to jerk sideways.
She gripped the steering wheel harder as the tire blew out with a loud bang.
Gravel sprayed everywhere as the car skidded off the road, crashing onto a patch of dead bushes—probably the only bushes around.
She trembled, gripping the wheel with one hand, tears mixing with sweat, yelling loudly,
"Oh Lord, no. No—no, not now, of all times. Not in this boondock!"
She closed her eyes in frustration, leaned back in the seat, and just cursed her whole existence, trying to dissolve all that she's going through.
As she opened her eyes, she was filled with red dots.
Tons of them—from her head to her stomach.
Then a voice cracked like thunder out of a dispatcher:
"You're surrounded. Step out of the vehicle, hands behind your back. I repeat—step out of the car."
She froze.
Her breath rising rapidly like her heart was doing backflips or something—breathing like she just ran from the Rapture.
Her brain? Non-existent.
She slowly raised one hand, the other inching to unbuckle that seatbelt.
Eyes wide.
Mouth dry.
Knees weak.
She steps out slowly.
"Ahh... aaaa... mmm... did anyone order ramen? I'm just the delivery," her trembling voice barely came out.
She slowly turned around, trying to be calm, but her knees were almost about to buckle.
The scene was straight out of some Call of Duty level stuff.
Six green SUVs surrounding the place.
Green-armored soldiers in formation, guns all drawn at her.
Some men in hazmat suits carrying crates labelled:
"Nuclear Classified."
And her—she was just standing there in sneakers and a hoodie, hands up, still holding that brown paper bag that smelled like steak.
One of the men made some gestures with his hands, and two guys broke off the formation, walking towards her Slow.
Precise.
Like predators eyeing their prey.
They came with scanners and weird tools.
"Keep your hands visible!" one of them yelled.
She nodded, swallowing her spit, too scared to talk—too stunned to even blink.
One guy scanned the car. The other one moved around her in a circle, scanning her.
He slowly lifted the hem of her hoodie, checking for straps, wires, patches.
Then pressed his earpiece and spoke in a steady voice,
"Echo-1, this is checkpoint. Secured. No HVT. Negative IED."
Then a third guy stepped forward from the formation and walked towards them same one who gestured earlier.
Six foot five or maybe it was just the boots.
He took off his helmet and ran his hands through his hair.
He looked like he was modeling for a military commercial.
Skin clear and smooth, glowing under the sun.
His lips? Rosy and full.
Brows thick like a rainforest.
Eyes—gemstone green, sharp and already locked on hers.
He tilted his head.
"So let me get this straight…"
"You drove through a restricted military zone…
Dodged checkpoints…
No clearance, no ID…
And you did all that…"
He steps closer—close enough to make her gulp—
"…for a bowl of bloody ramen?"
He glanced at the brown bag like it was wired to explode.
Then looked back at her like she was the bomb.
"Tell me who you're working for. And do it quick cause my patience ain't long."
She stood there stunned, breathless.
Lowered her eyes, jaw trembling.
Her voice soft—barely above a whisper.
"I-I work for Ramen Go. I'm just delivering, I swear with my life, I swear."
She grabbed at her throat to prove she wasn't lying, but the red dots instantly increased.
She quickly pulled her hand back in the air, eyes glimmering with held-back tears.
"Two hours. No signal. One order. I thought I was helping someone who was hungry and there was no sign that said Military Zone. Stay Out."
He squinted, assessing her like he could see straight through her.
The wind ruffled her hair.
Dirt clung to her cheeks.
Her hoodie oversized, wrinkled but somehow, she looked like a fallen ghetto angel.
Every ghetto, that is.
He stepped even closer.
The distance between them shrank until there was barely any air left to breathe.
His boots stopped right in front of hers.
His shadow fell over her like a warning.
She stiffened.
Her knees wobbled like wet paper.
And for a split second, she closed her eyes.
His stare felt like a blade pressed against her soul.
She opened her eyes slowly.
And there he was.
Still watching.
Like he was reading her thoughts.
But just as his lips parted,
A voice crackled through his earpiece.
He froze.
Jaw clenched.
Whatever he heard—it changed everything.
He stepped back.
Just one step.
But it felt like the Earth shifted.
"We're taking her."
His voice came sharp now.
He gestured at the rest of the soldiers still in formation.
One by one, rifles lowered.
Red dots vanished from her skin like ghosts retreating into the dark.
Boots turned.
Doors swung open.
Just like that—the battlefield dissolved into calm precision.
The formation broke.
Soldiers moved in sync wordless and trained slipping back into their armored SUVs.
Before she could speak before she could plead or explain again
Two soldiers moved in.
One grabbed her arm not rough, but firm.
The other already opening the SUV door.
"Wait—what? Why? I didn't do anything!"
"Ma'am. Get in the vehicle."
The words weren't cruel.
But they didn't care either.
They guided her, arms tight, into a black SUV.
Doors slammed.
Tires screeched.
She sat in the back, seatbelt cutting across her chest, heart hammering.
She looked out the window—dust kicking up behind them.
The desert. The sky.
And in her lap?
That brown paper bag.
Still smelling like ramen.
Still warm.
Still clutched like a lifeline.