In the course of prolonged, fierce firefights, the remnants of the LPD suffered heavy casualties and were nearly wiped out by ANSAR mercenaries. Captain Fadel abandoned the department, fleeing alongside his most loyal subordinates.

The Archangels, upon whose shoulders all hope rested, managed to mount a brief resistance but were forced to fall back and regroup.

As for the regular Security operatives... almost their entire force in the HOLD sector was annihilated. Now, the department's territory is firmly controlled by radicals and mercenaries.

But will the valiant special forces and high-tech contractors surrender so easily? That remains a mystery...

WARNING! This work contains extreme violence, graphic descriptions of injuries, death, and gore. Not for the faint of heart!

— Mmm... Fuck... Khhh-khah! Motherfucker... Mgh...

Said pried his eyes open, gritty with marble dust, his numb hand blindly patting the floor for a weapon. A piercing, high-pitched whine drilled into his brain—worse than any torture humanity could cook up. Frantically swiping at his eyes, the kid pushed up onto his elbows and scrambled back against the wall.

— Mhgh... Bitch... Everything fucking hurts.

Slumped against the cold marble, Said’s hearing slowly bled back in. Downstairs, gunfire traded places with muffled shouting and the sporadic, chest-thumping cracks of frags and flashbangs. Heavy, rapid footfalls echoed from the stairwell. Adrenaline spiked his blood like a red-hot needle. The kid lunged forward, lost his footing, and slammed hard onto his shoulder, but managed to snatch up his battered Tariq. Concussion and pure shock made his hands shake violently, ruining his grip. His breathing came in ragged gasps, pupils blown wide, a cold sweat washing over him.

— C-come on, you fuck... Get up, — he rasped through clenched teeth.

A massive, tattooed arm and a sliver of a black biker helmet edged around the corner. Said hesitated for a split second—Security didn't wear shit like that. Shaking off the doubt, he choked up on the pistol grip, ready to dump the whole mag through the wall.

— KHARA! AL-QAHBA!

A second later, two huge figures crashed onto the floor, locked in a death grip.

— GET THE FUCK OFF ME!

The jacked biker violently hurled the Security op away. Smashing into the wall, the op dropped his combat knife, doubling over. Without skipping a beat, the biker scrambled forward and wrapped his massive hand around the hilt. Staring up at the towering figure, the operative started begging, throwing his arms up in a desperate guard.

— Khah! W-wait! Don't!

The biker wound up, ready to cave his skull in, when a deafening gunshot cracked through the hall. The bullet punched clean through meat and bone with a sickening wet thud, dropping the op instantly. His limp body slumped against the floor. Dark blood oozed from the entry and exit wounds, trailing down his skin and helmet straps while his glassy eyes locked onto the ceiling.

— Mhgh... — Said let out a heavy exhale.

The big man whipped his head toward the noise. Said froze against the marble. A heavy, dead silence hung between them.

— Mmm... I would've killed him myself, — the biker growled.

— I... Khhh! I put him out of his misery...

— Misery? Hah! You shouldn't have a single fucking drop of mercy for these cunts!

Getting to his feet and dusting off his shirt and pants, the man approached his "savior." Extending his massive arm, which bore numerous scars alongside a centipede tattoo, the biker glared at him menacingly with his one eye. Silently taking the hand and barely getting to his feet, Said almost threw up.

— M! F-fuck...

— No time to puke, pull yourself together!

— Khhh-khah... Easy for you to say! Could you survive an RPG blasting into the wall? I still have this fucking ringing in my ears...

— I've survived things in local bars you couldn't even dream of.

Pushing up his visor, the biker spat a mix of blood and saliva onto the floor.

— Name, brother? — the man asked grimly.

— S... Said... — the kid rasped, swaying on his feet.

— I'm Ibrahim. Grab a weapon, Said. Can you walk?

— Yeah, but... Ptoo! — the guy spat bitter saliva to the side. — I'll be limping... My legs are shot to hell...

— Mgh... Alright, wait here and guard the corridors. You can take that bastard's gun, looks like some kind of assault rifle.

— Got it...

Static hissed from the radio on Ibrahim's chest rig. Grabbing the radio, the man brought the device to his mouth.

— /IBRAHIM! WE NEED HELP! THE INFIDELS ARE BREAKING THROUGH! WE'RE TAKING CASUALTIES!

— Fuck... Understood! I'm on my way!

— /HURR...

Gunshots and a guttural groan from the speaker only emphasized that the situation was critical. Clenching his teeth and cursing, Ibrahim clipped the radio back to his strap and sprinted back toward the stairs without another word. Said remained standing there for a moment, processing what the hell was happening. Glancing at the dead operative, the guy shuffled over to him. Dropping to his knees, Said undid the velcro on the pouches and began taking the hefty square magazines for the SCAR rifle. In the process, out of the corner of his eye, he looked at the dead man's pale face, locked in a frozen grimace of primal terror.

— Mgh... It's... It's your o-own fault...

Having taken the mags and the rifle, Said started rummaging through his tactical rig looking for a medkit. Finding the right pouch with a small black patch bearing a red cross, stained with its owner's blood, the kid unclipped it from the plate carrier and attached it to his jeans.

— You don't need th-this being dead, r-right...?

The limp body made no reply. Which was to be expected, anyway.

— Mmm... Just... Fuck... Don't show up in my nightmares, a-alright...?

With trembling hands, Said unzipped the medical pouch and pulled out a strange red syringe. The name and instructions were entirely in English, which the kid didn't understand. Hoping for the best, Said injected the contents into his vein. A sharp pain pierced him, but he endured it. Endured it, pressing harder on the stimulator.

Tossing the plastic aside, the kid began to feel a strange spike in his heart rate, the world came into sharper focus, and the weakness in his legs faded away.

— Mhyh... Fhooh! Mgyh!

***

— GO-GO-GOOOO! — Mark shouted desperately to his squadmates.

Three operatives bolted on command across the open corridor toward the adjacent room, while Mark frantically tried to pull a flashbang from his pouch.

— Mghyh... Oh, fuck! Come on!

Ripping open the velcro, he pulled out the grenade. Just as he was about to throw the blue-green cylinder, a deafening gunshot roared through the entire building. Mark flinched and nearly fell to the floor; a second later, a blood-curdling scream rang out.

— AAAAAA! GHAAAA! MGHYH! GYYYH! AAAAARGH! AAAAAA!

Turning his head toward the crossing point, Mark turned pale with horror. Two operatives were already standing near the door to the room, while the third writhed in agony on the floor. Part of his leg was blown off. The jagged stump looked like torn shreds of skin, bone, and denim fabric. Blood rapidly flooded everything around in a massive, uncontrollable fountain.

— AAAA! GHAAAH! MMMM! AAAAAAA!

— C-Chris... H-holy shit! — Mark forced out through trembling lips.

Breathing erratically and staring at his dying squadmate, the guy froze in place. His eyes lifted slightly higher, looking at the remaining two operatives. One of them decided to peek out from behind the wall to spot the deadly sniper.

Realizing there was about to be another death, Mark jerked his hand up and spread his palm wide, signaling them not to risk it.

— W-WAIT!

Through the roar of gunfire and screams, Mark's voice faded somewhere in the distance. Carefully poking his head out, the operative immediately pressed himself back against the wall.

— H-he's ahead! Behind the overturned ta...

Another deafening gunshot rang out, feeling even more intense. The operative standing around the corner disappeared for a fraction of a second in a cloud of blood mixed with marble dust. The limp body instantly collapsed to the floor, pooling blood everywhere. There was a massive hole in his chest, the kind only an anti-tank rifle could make.

The soldier didn't make a sound, not a cough, not a final word. Just dead silence, accompanied by the sound of blood gurgling inside his body.

Mark was stunned. His pupils dilated in primal terror. He slowly shifted his gaze from yet another corpse to the last remaining operative, huddled in the corner with his rifle, tears slowly welling up in his eyes.

— Mrghh! Mgh... F... FUCK! FUUUUCK! STOP, I'M BEGGING YOU! PLEASE! STOOOOP! HOLY FUCKING SHIT!

Unable to force out a single word, Mark watched this horror and looked down at his hands holding a grenade.

"You could have thrown it earlier, YOU COULD HAVE! You could have saved two men! And now what? They're corpses! What will the medics back on the mainland say? Died because of a fucking bastard who couldn't throw a grenade sooner?!" spun through the guy's mind.

— P-PLEASE! I'M BEGGING YOU! GOD! DON'T FUCKING SHOOT! — the terrified Leo continued to scream.

Mark remembered that a few moments ago, he had pulled the pin from the grenade. His gaze dropped to his trembling hand, pale from gripping the piece of metal. Shaking his head to break his focused stare on the horrifying scene, the guy hurled the grenade around the corner. A few seconds later, a bright white flash illuminated the hallway and the far room where the insurgents were. A loud bang pierced their eardrums, forcing their hands to instinctively cover their ears.

— Arghh... Mgh... Fuck... H-hey! Leo! — Mark croaked, shouting over the ringing in his ears.

— Ghhh... Huh?! — came the voice of the shell-shocked kid.

— Cover me! I-I'm coming to you!

— G-got it!

— On t-three!

A second of silence hung in the air; Mark snatched his weapon from behind his back.

— One... Two... THREE!

Darting forward, Mark sprinted toward his squadmate when he suddenly felt a strange slip under his feet. Nearly falling flat on his back, the guy pushed off with one foot from the pool of his once-living partner's blood, hitting the floor. Reaching cover, he breathed a sigh of relief, which didn't last very long considering his face was literally a couple of inches away from the face of his dead squadmate with the blown-out chest.

— Ah! H-HOLY SHIT!

Mark scrambled up from the floor, staring in horror at his comrade's pale body.

— F-fucking h... Hell... G-god...

Leo grabbed Mark and yanked him closer, shielding him from the line of fire at the corner.

— T-they're gonna fucking kill you too!

— Ah... Phew... Fuck... Yeah... I... G-God... — Mark squeezed out frantically.

— What do we do...?

— I have no fucking clue, honestly... Wait for backup...? There were like 50 of us coming in here, where is everyone...?

— Half of them are probably f-fucking dead already... Fucked up rooftop insertion... A chopper packed with guys g-got shot down with an RPG... Holy f-fucking shit... I heard the pilot screaming...

— AL-KAHBA! SURRENDER, YOU FILTHY SCUM! — one of the insurgents roared from the hall.

— Mgh... G-GO FUCK YOURSELF, YOU BEARDED CUNT! — Leo barked, tearing his throat.

Mark shoved a door open and jerked his head, signaling Leo to follow. Slipping into a small room that looked like someone's lavish walk-in closet, the guys frantically barricaded the door with plush leather sofas and random gold-plated clothing racks. In civilian life, wrecking a place like this would cost a massive fine, but... War tramples peacetime laws into the mud beneath its torn, blood-soaked combat boots.

— Phew... Phgh... Y-you think that's gonna hold them...? — Leo wheezed.

— Mghh... It should...

— And the way out...?

A cold, bone-chilling shudder ran down Mark's spine. He desperately scanned the room for any other exits, but... The only way out was already buried under the pile of garbage he and Leo had just shoved against the door.

— Fucking hell... — Leo whimpered, grabbing his head, barely holding back the welling tears.

— We're fucked...

— We gonna make a stand...?

— What the fuck else can we do...

— Let's at least sit down...

The guys slumped down next to each other, pressing their backs against the cold marble. Staring blankly at the ceiling, Leo suddenly spoke up:

— I thought... We were just gonna chase some ragtags in sandals around...

— Yeah... You think I wasn't hoping for the same...?

— Mh... What the fuck were they blasting our guys with anyway...?

Mark let out a heavy, defeated sigh, feeling the moisture prickling at the corners of his eyes.

— F... Fifty c-caliber... Shreds choppers and armored cars, let alone f-fucking people...

Leo turned his head to Mark, looking into his eyes with a pitiful, pleading gaze.

— C-Chris and Patrick w-will go to heaven, right...? Their souls are pure, right...?

— Yeah, they will... They definitely will...

— Maybe... Chris is still a-alive...? Just... Passed out...

A sudden surge of rage overtook Mark. Violently grabbing his squadmate by the collar, he started shaking him roughly.

— HE'S FUCKING DEAD! S-SHIT! HIS FUCKING LEG GOT BLOWN OFF! HE'S DEAD, LEO! FUCKING DEEEEAD! — Mark screamed, no longer able to hold back the hysteria.

Shoving his partner away, the guy burst into sobs, covering his face with his hands and hitting himself in the head. Leo sat in a daze, trying to fight down his own rising panic. With trembling, frantic hands, he pulled out his radio and tried to contact anyone who was still alive.

— H... H-hq, t-this is... Le... Oh, f-fuck... 'McCoy'... D-do you copy...?

Static hissed from the radio speaker, followed by snippets of a male voice with a thick French accent.

— /Copy that! This is 'Elephant'! I read you loud and clear, what the actual fuck is going on down there on the lower floor?!

— Mghh... W-we're pinned down... We barricaded ourselves in a room, mghyh... They're gonna breach it soon...

— /Fuck... Copy that! We'll try to push through to you! They're actually falling back to the first floor right now! Try to hold out for another 10-15 minutes!

— Mhh... Yes sir...

— /Out!

The static on the radio died out. Leo shoved it back into his tactical pouch and clutched his rifle to his chest. Mark was slowly pulling himself together, violently wiping the tears from his face.

— Ghk... Mgh... F-fucking bastards... What's he saying...?

— Mmm... Said we need to hold out for another 10-15 minutes... I have no fucking clue how that's even p-possible... How many mags you got left...?

— The last one in the r-rifle and two for the p-pistol... You?

— Two for the rifle and... just the one already in the sidearm...

— Fuck me... What about nades...?

— Got one frag and one incendiary...

— Hand me the frag...

Leo yanked the grenade off his plate carrier and tossed it to Mark. Grabbing the metal sphere, Mark forced himself to his feet and walked up to the barricade.

— Well? H-help me out, why are you just sitting there?

— M...? What the hell are you planning?

— You'll see...

Reluctantly getting up from the floor, his squadmate helped him clear out the sofas and clothing racks. Once they were done, Mark told the guy to post up in the corner, weapon at the ready, while he gripped the grenade tightly, straining his ears for any sound outside.

A couple of minutes later, the chatter of insurgents and heavy footsteps echoed down the hall, heading straight for their room.

— Alright... Stand near the door, about two meters back, and on my mark, you start dumping lead horizontally, you got it? In a circle, a fucking square, I don't care. We need a wide spread.

— Uhhh... O-okay...

— Oh! Hear that? They're right outside... We're gonna give them a fucking second Vietnam, bitch...

Mark gripped the door handle, waiting for the perfect moment. Once the voices on the other side made it clear the insurgents were right at the door, he yanked the pin and chucked the frag through the gap.

— LIGHT 'EM THE FUCK UP!

The radicals didn't even have time to process it or scream before Leo started blindly dumping his mag into the door. The 5.56 armor-piercing rounds chewed through the wood like a hot knife through butter. Over the deafening roar of gunfire, the first screams of agony rang out, instantly followed by a massive, ear-shattering explosion. The door was blown straight off its hinges, flying directly into Leo and launching him a couple of meters backward until he slammed into the marble wall.

Mark was thrown to the floor by the shockwave, clutching his head.

— AAAAAHH! GHRRAAAH! FUCK! MOTHERFUUUCK!

Rolling onto his stomach, he began dragging himself toward his squadmate on his elbows. The ringing in his ears was crushing his brain, making him literally growl from the sonic torture. Marble dust from the pulverized walls hung thick in the air, the tiny shards slicing into his already tearing eyes and suffocating his lungs.

— Khhh! Khah! Le... Kha! Leooo! You alive?!

No answer. Concussed and disoriented, Mark didn't yet realize that Leo was dead. He kept crawling toward his buddy, ignoring the burning in his muscles and the very real possibility that one of the insurgents could have survived the blast and could easily put a bullet in the back of his head right now.

— Leo... KHA-KHA! L-Leooo! W-why the fuck are you s-silent?! Leoooo!

Reaching his squadmate, who was pinned beneath the heavy wooden slab, Mark caught sight of a dark pool of blood slowly spreading from under Leo's body.

— A... Aha... L-Leo...? L-LEO!

Quickly forcing himself onto his knees, Mark shoved the wooden barricade off with both hands. When he saw what was underneath, a wave of primal terror washed over him. Leo's plate carrier and combat shirt were riddled with tiny holes, oozing thick blood. Two of his ribs had pierced through the skin and fabric, sticking out hideously like jagged little bones, glistening with a bloody film.

With trembling hands, Mark touched his partner's mangled body, staring down at the horribly disfigured face. The nose was literally caved into the skull, eyes frozen in a cocktail of pure terror and adrenaline. A mouth hung slightly open, letting a stream of crimson liquid slowly drip from parted lips.

— A... F-fu... Le... Leo... L-LEOOOOO! LEOOOOO! — Mark screamed, the tears finally breaking through his shattered composure.

He clutched his hair, shaking his head frantically. A guttural roar, dripping with the raw agony of his loss, echoed through the ruined room and down the hallway. Through the deafening rush of his own breakdown, Mark didn't hear the rapid footsteps approaching. And it definitely wasn't "Elephant."

Feeling a piercing chill run down his spine, Said slowly stepped into the room, his SCAR leveled.

— H-hey! — insurgent yelled, his voice trembling.

Mark's head instantly snapped toward the enemy. Said went pale right then and there—eyes, bloodshot from tears, bore straight into his soul with an inhuman, primal fury, utterly crushing whatever courage he had left.

— A-Ah... H-hands up! Now!

The operative slowly rose to his feet. Every movement was accompanied by involuntary, unnatural twitches, only amplifying Said's mounting terror.

— A-are you deaf?! Hands! Surrender, you freak!

The rebel's order was met with dead silence. Mark just glared at him from under his brow, breathing hoarsely, spit dripping from his mouth onto the floor.

— Grhyyyh... Grh... Grhuh...

Mark wasn't human anymore. A couple of minutes ago, he lost everything—his friends, his will to live, and... his fear of death. His fingers twitched gruesomely as he tried to clench his fists, looking more like violent, uncontrollable spasms.

— Come... here... — Mark growled hoarsely.

— Come to y-you? Bring it, bitch! I'll gut your fucking intestines and wear them around my neck like a trophy, you fucking American!

Tossing his rifle aside and shrugging off his chest rig, Said pulled out a combat knife.

— Come on, soldier boy, make your move...

— Grhyh... Ghyh... RHYAAAAA!!!

Like a rabid dog snapping its chain, Mark lunged at Said in a blistering blur, tackling him hard to the marble floor. The insurgent was paralyzed by the operative's sheer explosive speed. Said swung his arm frantically, desperately trying to plunge his blade into the neck of the man towering over him.

— GRHAAAAAH!

Mark's feral roar was so deafening that Said's ears popped. Drool mixed with blood splattered all over the insurgent's face, forcing his eyes shut on pure instinct.

— AAAH! M-MOTHERFUCKER! YOU FUCKING PSYCHO!

Mark clamped onto the rebel's arm with a death grip, squeezing with enough force to grind the bones inside to dust. Blinded by excruciating pain, Said unspooled his fingers and dropped the knife. Fighting desperately for his life, the guy threw a wild punch with his free hand, catching the operative right in the jaw.

— Ghu! Khhh...

The operative collapsed to the floor, groaning agonizingly in pain. Wasting no time, the insurgent sprang to his feet, clutching the crushed arm.

— Arghh... Fuuuck... Mgh, b-bitch...

Glancing at Mark sprawling on the floor with a dislocated jaw, Said relaxed slightly. The thought of victory instantly provided a false sense of security—a fatal mistake. As the rebel bent down for the knife, Mark let out a bloodcurdling shriek, grabbed the man's leg with both hands, and sank teeth straight into the denim fabric. Sharp pain shot through Said's body; the pant leg began soaking wet.

— AAAAAAAH! FUCK! GET OFF, GET OFF, GET OOOOFF!

Yanking the leg away with the sickening sound of tearing flesh, Said stumbled backward. The foot dangled lifelessly, refusing to move. Blood rapidly flooded everything around—sneaker, sock, and floor—leaving a thick crimson trail.

— UGHH! MMMMGFH! B-BITCH!

Spitting out a chunk of human flesh, Mark slowly rose to his feet. Grabbing the dislocated jaw, the operative snapped it back into place with a nauseating crunch. Blood began to well up from the corner of the mouth.

— Mmmm! M... KHA-KHA! — Mark grunted, coughing up blood.

Said stared back, eyes wide with absolute terror. Fear paralyzed the insurgent's body. A true beast stood before him—not a man, but a literal animal. Only the shell remained human; the soul now belonged to something horrifying, rabid, and utterly unpredictable.

— Y... Y-yooou... SPIT! Y-yooou... N-no... N-nooo... Y-YOU WON'T S-STOP MEEE! RGHAAAAAA!!!

Mark let out a feral roar and launched another lightning-fast dash at Said. Literally slamming the rebel into the hard marble wall, the operative began snapping jaws frantically, trying to tear into the neck.

Said fought with everything he had to push the primal beast away. However, against pure rage, he was powerless. Mark's sharp teeth reached the soft skin of the throat, clamping down with a dead, animalistic grip. Said jerked away sharply as blood sprayed in weak spurts—Mark had ripped away a small chunk of flesh. Adrenaline fueled by the fear of death surged through the insurgent's body, eyes widening as titanic strength suddenly flooded the arms. With a visceral scream, Said threw the rabid cannibal off and clutched the bleeding neck.

— GRHAAAH! FUUUCK! AAAAAH!

Gritting teeth, Said stared at Mark through half-shut eyes. The soldier spat the piece of neck onto the floor, tongue licking lips completely soaked in a mixture of his own and the enemy's blood.

— Y-YOU! YOU S-SICK FUCKING FREAK!

While the operative roared in a fit of madness, staring at blood-drenched hands, Said caught a glimpse of a red cylinder on Leo's corpse—an AN-M14 incendiary grenade. Yes. Burning this bastard to a crisp would be the absolute best solution.

Realizing what the insurgent was about to do, Mark began to snarl again, spraying saliva everywhere. As the beast prepared to pounce once more, Said halted the charge with a brutal front kick to the chest, sending Mark crashing to the floor.

Limping heavily, the rebel dropped next to the corpse and frantically yanked the grenade from the tactical vest. Recovering from the blow, Mark was already shuffling slowly toward him.

— D-DON'T EVEN T-TRY TO S-STOP ME!

Ignoring the threat, Said pulled the pin and hurled the red cylinder at the operative. A blindingly white flash illuminated the room for a split second, followed immediately by a loud, aggressive hissing. Dripping globs of melting iron, the grenade struck Mark's plate carrier with a dull, barely audible thud.

The man erupted in flames instantly. A wild, indescribable agony consumed the poor bastard's entire body. The nylon carrier, along with the ceramic plate inside, literally began to dissolve under the 2200-degree heat, creating a hellish mixture that rapidly melted through skin and flesh.

Mark howled in unbearable pain, clawing at the gear, desperately trying to extinguish the burning thermite, but... It was completely useless. The sickeningly sweet stench of charred flesh slammed into Said's nostrils as he watched this chilling nightmare of war unfold. The burning operative thrashed frantically from side to side, smashing into walls before finally collapsing to the floor. The animalistic shrieks devolved into choked, agonizing death rattles.

Still twitching like a fish out of water, Mark looked at Said one last time, and the insurgent saw it. The soldier's face had melted into a meaty grimace of absolute horror. Eyeballs literally began to liquefy and run out of their sockets, while the helmet fused and draped over the face in a sheet of molten aramid. A few moments later, Mark's torment finally ended. The legs stopped twitching, and the burning arms splayed lifelessly across the floor.

Running on fumes and pure adrenaline, Said stood up on the uninjured leg, pressing a hand tightly against the bleeding neck. Vision was growing dangerously blurry, the head felt heavy as lead, and limbs refused to obey.

— Mghh... Mghyh... I... I'll survive...

In short, erratic spurts, stepping widely around the burning corpse, the rebel stumbled out of the ill-fated locker room. Collapsing to the floor from sheer exhaustion, Said crawled on pure willpower toward the "friendly" positions, when a towering silhouette flashed before his clouded eyes. It didn't look like an insurgent—the massive helmet and unfamiliar camo pattern made it instantly clear: another operative. Said froze in place.

Wiping the bloodshot eyes with a free hand, the guy noticed the operative already advancing on him with a baton drawn.

— Mmm...

Frantically scrambling to his feet, the rebel was ready to put up a fight, but instantly received a devastating, bone-crushing blow to the knees with the blunt weapon. An agonizing moan tore from the throat, and Said crumpled back to the floor.

Rafael stowed the baton and drew an M45A1 from a drop-leg holster. The man stomped a heavy combat boot down onto the guy's violently trembling hand, pinning it down.

The insurgent wailed hysterically, grinding teeth until they cracked under the pressure. Rafael, glaring down arrogantly at the pathetic spectacle before him, racked the slide of the pistol and aimed the muzzle dead center at Said's head.

— Rendez le mal pour le mal (Return evil for evil), — the Frenchman uttered dryly.

DISCLAIMER: The following fan-concept contains mature and graphic themes, including descriptions of intense close-quarters warfare, severe psychological trauma, summary executions, graphic violence, and strong explicit language. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

Long before the arrival of PMC mercenaries like "ANSAR" and "Archangel", the Middle East lived by its own rules. Unfortunately, many young men were radicalized—simply handed a rifle and told to go to war.

One such young man was Said, a 19-year-old kid from the slums of the GAP sector who worked as a carpet vendor at the local market. Growing up, he didn't stand out from his peers; he just lived an ordinary life, helping his parents and hanging out with friends.

He wasn't an only child; he had an older brother, Mustafa. The two were inseparable and always had each other's backs. Unfortunately, at 18, Mustafa fell in with the wrong crowd and turned to robbery and extortion. During a botched armed robbery, he got into a shootout with the local police and was ultimately arrested and imprisoned. Their father tried to bribe the authorities, but to no avail.

Left alone, Said spiraled into deep depression. Without Mustafa, he felt like the useless half of their duo. Still, he visited his brother frequently, bringing him food and supplies. With each visit, Said noticed a disturbing change: Mustafa was losing his mind. Not only was he getting physically massive, but his aggression was off the charts. He never aimed this anger at Said or their family, but as for his cellmates... it's better not to think about what happened to them.

When the armed conflict broke out, the radicals came to his home. After a brief struggle, Said was overpowered and dragged away to an unknown location, with the desperate screams of his parents echoing behind him. During the insurgent training camps, he earned the role of a "Breacher" thanks to his lean build and sheer speed.

Said's first real combat mission was the assault on the ALMAS Hotel, right in his home territory. In the heat of battle, he proved his worth, taking down several Security operatives.

However, this minor victory was quickly followed by a massive counter-attack. Overwhelming Security forces stormed the building, retaking it floor by floor. The bloodiest slaughter took place on the first and second floors. Said, fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with his brothers in faith and arms, put up a desperate defense, turning the hotel into a living nightmare for the operatives and the local army.

Once both floors were drenched in blood and choked with corpses, and with combatants on both sides nearly wiped out, Said went scouting for survivors. Stepping into one of the locker rooms, he came face-to-face with a Security operative completely unhinged by PTSD—a man who looked at Said not as an enemy, but as prey. A brutal, animalistic brawl ensued. Said suffered heavy blows and bite wounds, but he managed to kill the operative by detonating an incendiary grenade he had scavenged from a dead body. But as he stumbled out of the room, a local police officer was waiting for him, immediately shattering Said's knees with a baton and dropping him to the ground.

The last thing Said remembered were the cop's words: *"We will wipe your kind off the face of the earth."* Then, a loud bang... and darkness.
But Said didn't die. He took a bullet just below the eye. The shot missed his vital organs, which meant only one thing... it lit the fuse of his revenge.

Said doesn't remember how he crawled out of that hotel, nor how he acquired his black tactical gear and mask. But he remembers exactly WHAT they did to him.

DISCLAIMER: The following fan-concept contains mature and graphic themes, including descriptions of intense close-quarters warfare, severe psychological trauma, summary executions, graphic violence, and strong explicit language. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

During the 48-hour refit and regroup of both PMCs, the remnants of the LPD (Local Police Department) pushed into Sector HOLD. Rumor has it, these poor bastards were rocking one pump-action and a couple of sidearms for the whole damn platoon... Or so the chatter goes.

After digging in at the precinct, the government forces immediately made contact with local tangos, heavily backed by ANSAR instructors. Following a brutal daytime firefight, the hostiles took heavy casualties and the surviving elements fell back.

Despite holding the line, the LPD suffered severe casualties on top of an already depleted roster. War correspondents managed to grab another sit-down with Captain Fadel:

— Oh, haha, good to see you, Captain Fadel!

— Yeah. Copy that.

— Can you give us a SITREP on today's engagement?

— The local radicals hit us again, and they brought some high-speed, grey futuristic bastards with them... Look, to me, a Kevlar is just a pot on your head, no fancy mounts or any of that high-tech bullshit. But these guys... One of their brain buckets probably costs more than our entire precinct's budget. My boys scavenged their rifles, and I gotta admit, it's some top-tier hardware. Somebody's dumping serious black money into these whores.

— Did you get eyes on their instructors?

— Better yet — I dropped one of 'em. Shot the fucker right in the back. Might sound like a cheap shot, but in the shit, you play to win, right?

— Yeah...

— And their tactical gear... Man, I couldn't even tell at first if I was looking at their instructor or some PMC operator from "Archangel".

— Right... Got any final messages for the record?

— Point that camera at me real quick... Oh, wait. *Ahem*. To the highly-esteemed operators of ANSAR: If you step foot inside this precinct again, I guarantee you — not a single one of you is walking out alive.

For now, the LPD is holding the sector. But how long can they keep it secured?

DISCLAIMER: The following fan-concept contains mature and graphic themes, including descriptions of intense close-quarters warfare, severe psychological trauma, summary executions, graphic violence, and strong explicit language. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

After the ANSAR mercenaries entered the fray, Security forces took catastrophic losses, bleeding crucial strategic territories. Desperate, the local government was forced to find a countermeasure.

Soon after, a highly influential military figure—known only as [REDACTED]—deployed the first vanguard units of PMC "Archangel" into the Middle East. Intel is scarce, but the roster is packed with hardened war veterans, tier-one operators, and ex-special forces. They don't fight for a cause, and they sure as hell don't volunteer to fight "evil." But if the check clears, the job gets done. Period.

Their integration alongside regular Security forces drew mixed reactions. Some grunts thought they were arrogant show-offs. Others genuinely viewed them as saviors descending from the heavens to purge the evil—even if they arrived via helicopters. In inner circles, they earned the monikers "Winged" or "Owls," thanks to their winged patches and signature night-ops camo.

Archangel's maiden op was a full-scale assault on Sector HOLD, recently overrun by ANSAR. What followed was a brutal, high-intensity night CQB nightmare. The "Owls" managed to claw back most of the sector. Both PMCs took heavy casualties and were forced to pull back, turning HOLD into a bloody "no man's land".

When the smoke cleared, the responding local police and medics were absolutely horrified by the aftermath. A war correspondent managed to grab a quick interview with Anwar Fadel, a squad captain for the LPD (Local Police Department).

***

— To be honest with you? Man... I don't even know where to begin. We've heard about ANSAR. We've responded to their aftermaths before. Usually, it's mostly dead Security and a few Insurgents... but here... "Ya Allah, arhamna" (Oh God, have mercy on us)... I’ve never seen so many bodies. My guys are exhausted just picking up the brass, grenade pins, and discarded mags. I've never seen slaughter on this scale in my entire career. Still... Sector HOLD is now technically a "neutral" zone. We’re going to rally what's left of our forces and dig in.

— Captain, with all due respect, "ANSAR" mercenaries are highly trained killers. If the regular Security forces couldn't hold them, your men don't stand a chance!

— Son, this is a matter of honor. I've served this city for 16 years. I am fully prepared to catch a bullet or eat a grenade, but I will not let these bastards trample the law.

— R-right... Thank you, Captain.

***

The situation escalates with every passing day. And it seems... Security forces just gained two very different kinds of allies.

DISCLAIMER: The following fan-concept contains mature and graphic themes, including descriptions of intense close-quarters warfare, severe psychological trauma, summary executions, and violence. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

Following the devastating defeat of Security forces in the FOREST sector, authorities declared a state of high alert for operatives and local military personnel. Recently, Security forces managed to capture sector HOLD after fierce CQB fighting inside the police department.

ANSAR mercenaries were contracted to secure strategic points, specifically opening the airspace by capturing the helipad near the precinct. That very night, a massive sabotage attack was launched. Operating alongside radical elements, the mercenaries decimated the numerically superior enemy forces. The surviving Security operatives abandoned their positions and retreated in haste.

The following is a transcript of an interview with a surviving local military soldier:

***

— Jesus... I-I... I don't know how to describe it... When w-we finally managed to take the department, we thought that was it...

— Can you tell us exactly how you engaged the enemy?

— J-Josh and I took positions on the roof of the building, we had a good vantage point, and suddenly... I-I noticed flashlight beams, there were... at least 10 of them... Josh patted m-my shoulder, and before he could even open his mouth - he took a b-bullet straight to the head... I dropped to the ground immediately and r-radioed that we were being counter-attacked... If only I knew WHO was c-coming for us...

— Had you heard of them before?

— Huh? Yeah, yeah... Our squad h-heard about ANSAR, and w-we thought it was just campfire stories to scare the rookies, but... You know, when you're concussed, walking through dark corridors under non-stop gunfire and explosions, s-stumbling over the bodies of your dead squadmates... Your nerves break faster than a-anything... I wanted to surrender, b-but... If the Insurgents publicly e-executed our guys, laughing and clapping their hands, I don't even want to imagine what those mercenaries would h-have done to me...

— Hmm... Tell me, did you manage to get a look at any of them?

— Yeeeah... I saw one... From around the corner... This wasn't just another Insurgent, this was a fully kitted operative... A full-seal helmet with a mandible guard, pitch-black g-glasses, grey tactical gear... B-but the most important thing... His patch... It was o-on his plate carrier... Those exact s-shackles on the hands, struck by lightning... I guess he didn't notice me...

— Can you describe their modus operandi?

— Operate... L-like... Like a meat cleaver... They strike brutally, with full swings - but they always kill... I'm m-maybe one of the few who managed to survive a firefight with them...

— Mhm... I see. Thank you.

***

Unfortunately, at this moment, this is the only conversation military journalists managed to record. The remaining survivors refuse to give interviews.
Local authorities are now actively considering the creation of a counter-measure capable of stopping PMC "ANSAR".

DISCLAIMER: The following fan-concept contains mature themes, including descriptions of war, violence, executions, and extreme moral ambiguity. Reader discretion is advised.

Due to the protracted combat operations in the Middle East, various corporate interests have turned their attention to the conflict, eager to profit from this bloody war. A certain billionaire [DATA REDACTED] announced the deployment of PMC "ANSAR" into the combat zone. These are highly trained, professional mercenaries from all corners of the globe — operators who wouldn't hesitate to kill their own squadmates if it meant securing their millions.

According to military journalists, the PMC positions itself as "a volunteer force assisting the local population against Western invaders and ensuring security." However, gruesome footage has surfaced online showing public executions of Security operatives, mass looting, robbery, hostage-taking, and the illegal extraction of oil and gold.

These materials are swiftly scrubbed from the net, but a small circle of civilians is already questioning their "benevolence" and "protection," fueled by the grim accounts of surviving operatives and local police.

Since the arrival of ANSAR forces, Security troops have been rapidly losing ground, surrendering, and fleeing the battlefield. Local authorities acknowledge the mercenaries' extreme professionalism and claim to be keeping the situation under control.

However... The reality on the ground is entirely different. The first large-scale sabotage operation by PMC "ANSAR" took place in a combat sector known as FOREST. Working alongside local insurgents, the mercenaries breached an abandoned military base, destroying multiple ammunition caches and capturing key strategic points. That same night, Security forces attempted a counterattack but suffered a devastating defeat, losing the vast majority of their personnel in the sector.

The authorities are terrified. The regular army and foreign operatives are terrified.

What will save them?