---
Jex gasped, sucking in a shaky breath as he scrambled backward, his pulse hammering in his ears. The shockwave had nearly thrown him off the rooftop, and even now, his body was locked in a tremor, his mind struggling to process the sheer devastation below. He had been close—too close. If Valka hadn't shouted at the last second, if he had been just a second slower—
His jaw clenched as he glanced at her, trying to steady himself. Valka stood rigid, her normally composed face pale in the flickering firelight. Her fingers twitched slightly, the only sign that the heat had gotten to her too. That brief moment of scorching air against her skin, the split-second realization that death had just brushed past them, sent an unfamiliar chill down her spine.
"Holy shit…" Jex muttered, staring down at the destruction. "What the fuck was that…?"
Below them, fire raged through the alleyway, consuming what remained of the DreamCorp squad that had chased after the spider. The explosion had turned metal into jagged shrapnel, embedding itself into walls, bodies, and vehicles alike. The acrid stench of burning flesh mixed with smoke and scorched debris. It was a complete massacre.
Valka forced herself to breathe, pushing away the surge of adrenaline making her hands shake. She could still feel the heat licking at her skin, the momentary fear gripping her heart. But more than fear—she felt something else. That damn kid… he did this.
A slum rat almost killed everyone here.
Her lips curled slightly, not in amusement, but in something bordering on reluctant admiration. He wasn't just some desperate fugitive running blindly—he was dangerous. And if they didn't adjust their approach, they might be the next ones blown apart.
"We're pulling back," she ordered, snapping Jex out of his daze. "Now."
Jex hesitated for half a second before nodding. "Yeah. Yeah, fuck this."
They disappeared into the shadows, leaving behind only the flames and their shaken breaths.
---
DreamCorps command tent.
The room was silent.
Too silent.
Commander Asmund Kren sat at his console, the holo-screens before him replaying the footage of the explosion on a loop. His hands were clammy, gripping the armrests of his chair so tightly his nails dug into the synthetic leather. His career—his life—was over.
The moment his men had reported enemy contact, he had been ready for another frustrating chase. But this? This was outright obliteration. Someone had led his troops into a death trap. Someone had outmaneuvered his forces with ruthless precision. And now, dozens of his best men were nothing more than burning corpses in a slum alley.
His throat felt dry as the call came in.
He flinched.
The line opened, but there was silence. A weighted silence that spoke volumes.
"Report."
Kren swallowed hard. "Sir… the target is still unaccounted for. The retrieval unit was—"
He hesitated. The words wiped out tasted like poison in his mouth. He forced himself to continue. "They walked into a trap. We have multiple KIA, heavy losses. We're still securing the area."
The silence on the other end deepened, stretching long enough that he felt his stomach churn. Then, finally:
"You are no longer in control of this operation. We are sending someone to handle this."
The call cut off.
Kren exhaled shakily, feeling his entire world tilt beneath him. There was no escaping it now. Whoever they were sending… it wasn't just for Sol.
It was for him too.
---
The blast had sent a shockwave through the slums, but nothing compared to the one shaking Sol to his core.
His body trembled uncontrollably. He could still feel the faint vibrations of the explosion, could still hear the distant screams and the deafening roar of destruction. But the worst part wasn't the noise—it was the silence afterward.
The eerie, suffocating stillness that came when life was suddenly snuffed out.
Sol's stomach lurched, bile rising in his throat. He barely managed to turn away before he vomited, his body wracked with dry heaves after emptying what little he had left inside him. His breaths came in gasps, his hands gripping his arms as if trying to hold himself together.
He had killed them.
Dozens of people.
Some of them had probably never even seen his face, never even known why they had died. They had just followed orders. Just like his teacher had warned him—soldiers follow orders, they don't ask questions.
Tears burned at the edges of his vision. His shoulders shook as he gritted his teeth, trying to silence the ugly sob tearing through his throat. Why did it have to be like this? Why couldn't they have just left him alone? He never wanted this. Never wanted blood on his hands.
But now, they were drenched in it.
Gru watched silently. He had expected the kid to be different, but watching Sol break like this made something twist uncomfortably in his gut. He didn't like the brat much at first, but now… all he felt was pity.
With a sigh, Gru stepped forward and tapped Sol's shoulder.
"Get up, kid."
Sol flinched at the sudden touch. His head snapped up, dazed eyes meeting Gru's steady gaze. The goblin's usual scowl had softened, though his expression remained unreadable.
"You had no other choice," Gru said simply. "Doesn't mean you gotta like it, but it's done. Don't let it break you."
But Sol wasn't sure if he could get up. His legs felt weak, his body drained. His mind screamed at him, replaying the sight of the bodies, the way the flames devoured everything. The faces of the dead—faces he had never even seen—felt burned into his memory.
All he could hear was ringing.
Gru sighed, squeezing his shoulder once before standing up. "Take a minute if you need to. But we're not safe yet, and you damn well know it."
Sol sucked in a shuddering breath, his fingers digging into his arms. He knew that. He knew that better than anyone.
Survival demanded he keep moving.
But for the first time in his life… he wasn't sure if he wanted to anymore.