Chapter Twenty Three #4
I nod, but my body doesn’t move. Not yet. My hands grip the rifle too tight, knuckles bone-white, the metal shaking against my palms.
I don’t even realise my lips are moving until Torres gives me a sharp look.
“You’re talking to yourself again.”
I blink. My throat works. My voice is low, raw, breaking. “Not to myself.”
His stare sharpens. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t have to because we both know. I’ve been whispering it through every corridor, every bullet, every breath I thought might be my last.
Her name.
My ghost.
My Butterfly.
Torres slaps my shoulder, hard enough to sting. “We’re done here, Kingston. Let’s get the fuck out before we end up corpses too.”
I nod once, push my boots forward, force myself down the hall but every step is heavier. Every breath sharper. Every shadow thicker.
And I know it—I’m running on fumes.
On ghosts.
On her.
The rifle feels heavier with every step. Like it’s not just steel but the weight of every choice I’ve made, every ghost I’ve carried.
The hallway opens into the yard—open air, sky split wide with smoke and ash. My boots drag through the dirt, but I don’t let myself fold. Not yet.
Not here.
Torres limps beside me, one hand pressed tight to his thigh. Blood seeps through his fingers, thick and dark, but he still keeps pace. Still carries his rifle. Still breathes like he refuses to stop.
We cross to the exile point, every second stretching razor-thin. The sun’s sinking low, bleeding red into the horizon, painting the sand like fresh wounds.
My body begs to give out. My ribs ache, my side burns, my head rings but I keep moving because if I go down now, Torres goes down too and I’ve already buried too many brothers.
“Still upright,” Torres mutters, half to himself, half to me. “Fuck, you’re too stubborn to die.”
“Not today,” I rasp. My throat tastes of ash and blood.
“Your medic wouldn’t forgive you anyway.”
The words slice deeper than any bullet.
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
If I open my mouth, it won’t be words that come out. It’ll be the truth. The ache. The name I’ve been carrying like shrapnel in my lungs.
Cassandra.
The hum of the evac convoy reaches us before the headlights cut through the dust. A low roar, mechanical and steady.
Safe.
Almost.
I force my legs faster, even as my vision swims. The sand shifts under my boots, the sky tilts, but I keep Torres upright, keep us both moving.
We reach the trucks just as the first stars claw through the horizon.
My grip loosens on the rifle only when I shove Torres into the back of the MRAP. He curses, teeth gritted, blood pooling under him, but he’s alive.
Alive.
I lean against the frame, head tipped back, lungs clawing, ribs screaming. My hands are slick with someone else’s blood. Maybe mine. Doesn’t matter.
What matters is that I’m still standing. Still breathing. Still fighting and I know exactly why.
Not for orders.
Not for country.
Not for survival.
For her.
Always her.
My Butterfly.
The ride back feels endless.
The MRAP rattles like it’s falling apart under us, steel screaming against steel, every bump in the dirt road sending shockwaves through my ribs. My helmet’s off, my head tipped back against the armour plating, but my eyes won’t close. Not here. Not now.
Torres is strapped in across from me, pale as chalk, jaw clenched tight. Blood’s soaked through his combat pants, but his grip hasn’t left his rifle. Stubborn bastard.
The medic inside works fast—tourniquet, gauze, pressure—but it’s his eyes that tell me the truth. He knows it’s bad. We all do but Torres doesn’t break. Doesn’t whimper. Just spits into the dust and mutters, “Still upright.”
I nod once because if he can stay upright, so can I.
Even when my vision blurs. Even when the ringing in my ears swells to a scream. Even when my body begs me to quit.
The convoy barrels through the gates. Base rises out of the smoke like some broken promise—barbed wire, sandbags, canvas tents, diesel fumes choking the air.
The brakes screech. Doors slam open.
Hands drag Torres first, his weight carried between two medics who move like they’ve done this too many times. His head lolls, but he’s alive. Still alive.
I push myself forward. Boots hit dirt. Legs almost fold.
No.
Not yet.
One step.
Another.
The med tent glows harsh under floodlights, canvas walls snapping in the desert wind. I stagger toward it, rifle slipping in my grip, my body ready to quit.
And then—She’s there.
Cassandra.
Hair tied back, scrubs hanging loose, eyes sharp even when they’re rimmed red. Her hands are busy—steadying Torres, shouting for plasma, moving like she’s born for this chaos—but her gaze finds me and for one brutal second, it’s like the whole war stops.
Her lips part.
Her eyes widen.
Her voice—fuck, her voice—cuts through the ringing in my skull.
“Dax.”
My knees give.
The ground rushes up.
Darkness presses in but the last thing I feel isn’t dirt or pain or blood.
It’s her hands catching my face, hot and trembling, her voice breaking like it’s the only tether holding me here—“Dax, stay with me. Please—stay with me.”
And then nothing.
Just the dark.
Just her name burning in my chest.