Something felt wrong the moment the general said it.
One percent.
One percent chance of survival—said so calmly, so casually, like he was talking about weather. And yet, even after hearing that number, I still sat there listening to the plan.
That alone should have scared me.
We gathered again in the main briefing hall. The same cold lights. The same massive screens. The same faces that already knew most of them would not see the end.
The general stood at the center, hands behind his back.
"Thirty members," he began. "Divided into six groups."
The screen changed.
"Each group will consist of five members."
Six symbols appeared, branching outward like veins from a heart.
"Every group will complete three missions per day."
The room stayed quiet.
"Morning. Afternoon. Night."
A pause.
"The destinations of each group will be geographically close."
That part sounded reasonable.
Then he continued.
"And this will continue… until the objective is complete."
I felt it then.
That tightness in my chest.
That instinct that had kept me alive for two years.
Something was wrong.
The screen split into groups.
Delta Group.
My group.
My destination appeared next.
Japan.
North Korea.
South Korea.
Three countries.
Close on a map.
But not in reality.
Not in war.
Not in one day.
My jaw tightened.
That was when I knew.
This was impossible.
Three countries. Three missions. One day.
Even with perfect planning, perfect execution, perfect luck—something would break. Something had to break.
And yet… there were no alternatives.
No one raised their hand.
No one protested.
Because when survival drops to one percent, you stop arguing about logic.
You just move forward.
We were given two days.
Two days before deployment.
Two days before flights.
Two days to prepare ourselves for something no one wanted to name out loud.
That night, my group met for the first time.
A small room. No screens. No generals.
Just us.
Five people.
Five killers.
Georgia spoke first.
Tall. Calm. British accent softened by years of war.
"Georgia," he said. "UK."
He didn't say anything else. He didn't need to.
Next was Suno.
Japanese. Quiet. Eyes sharp. Her posture was defensive even while sitting. The kind of person who didn't attack first—but made sure you never reached the second move.
"Suno," she said simply.
Then Tehran.
Jordanian. Broad shoulders. Right side dominant. His movements were precise, military-clean. No wasted energy.
"Tehran."
Nancy leaned back in her chair, arms crossed.
Spain.
Left-wing specialist. Fast. Aggressive. Her eyes never stopped moving, scanning all of us like she was already planning contingencies.
"Nancy."
Then they all looked at me.
"Death," I said.
No one reacted.
Good.
Roles were decided quickly.
Not by argument.
By understanding.
"I'll attack," I said.
No one disagreed.
"Support's on me," Georgia added.
Suno nodded. "Defense."
"Left wing," Nancy said.
Tehran tilted his head slightly. "Right wing."
Clean.
Efficient.
Like it had been rehearsed already.
We went over the plan.
Targets would be given through GPS coordinates. Drones would guide us. Surveillance would be constant. Extraction windows would be narrow.
We wouldn't get lost.
That wasn't the problem.
The problem was time.
And perfection.
Everything looked… too easy.
Too smooth.
Too well-prepared.
Wars never look like this before they break you.
I leaned back in my chair, arms crossed, eyes half-closed.
"This feels wrong," I said.
Georgia raised an eyebrow. "In what way?"
"In every way," I replied. "Plans don't look this clean unless someone is hiding the dirt."
Nancy smirked. "You saying we're walking into a trap?"
"I'm saying," I answered slowly, "that something bad is going to happen. And it won't be random."
Suno didn't speak. But her grip tightened slightly.
Tehran nodded once. He understood.
After the meeting, I walked alone through the castle corridors.
Screens flickered. Data moved. People worked like ants inside a machine too big to understand.
One percent.
That number stayed with me.
Not because it scared me.
But because it freed me.
If the odds were that low, then worrying was useless.
Preparation wasn't.
That night, I trained alone.
No audience.
No competition.
Just my body and the floor.
I ran until my lungs burned. I struck walls until my knuckles bled. I practiced transitions—boxing into Muay Thai, Muay Thai into grappling, grappling into standing.
Again.
And again.
And again.
I wasn't training to win.
I was training to survive when everything went wrong.
Because I knew it would.
As I finally stopped, breathing steady, one thought settled deep inside me—quiet, heavy, certain.
When a plan looks perfect, it's already lying.