𝟐 | 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐲 | 𝒮𝒾𝓂ℴ𝓃 "𝒢𝒽ℴ𝓈𝓉" ℛ𝒾𝓁ℯ𝓎

prologue

The silence after a gunshot is never quiet.

Not really.

It hums in your ears, sharp and thick, like the world holding its breath.

I stood over Shepherd's body, the muzzle of my pistol still warm in my hand. Smoke curled into the air, lazy and unbothered. He looked smaller now. Mortal. Just another man who thought he could play god.

I didn't feel triumphant. I didn't feel anything.

I holstered the weapon, turned on my heel, and walked away like I hadn't just shot a general in the head.

I walked slow. Measured. No one questioned me—yet. Maybe they didn't know. Maybe they didn't want to know. That's the thing about people like Shepherd... they die, and the world hesitates. No one rushes to mourn the devil.

My boots echoed against the concrete. The hallway stretched on ahead, sterile and gray. Just like the morgue I found Johnny in.

Johnny.
His name hit me like it always did—fast, sharp, never gentle. I used to say it with a smile. Now it just felt like a wound.

He would've told me not to do this. Not to let vengeance eat me alive. But he was gone, and I was the one left choking on the aftermath.

I had promised myself I wouldn't become like them. Shepherd. Makarov. Men who took and twisted and destroyed everything they touched.

But the blood on my hands said otherwise.

And I hadn't even gotten to the real monster yet.

Makarov.

That name lived in my head louder than my own. Every step I took away from Shepherd was a step toward him. I could feel it. Like a tether pulling me closer to the reckoning.

He didn't know I was coming. But he would.

The base lights flickered—once, twice. Then came the sirens.

A shrill, gut-punching wail that shattered the silence and slammed straight into my spine. Red lights bathed the hallway, flashing like a heartbeat on the verge of flatlining.

They found him.

Shouts echoed down the corridor. Heavy boots pounded the ground behind me. The calm cracked. "Hey—stop!"

I didn't look back.

Gunfire erupted. The first bullet ricocheted off the wall just inches from my head. I swore under my breath and ran.

I tore around the corner, heart punching my ribs, breath sharp in my throat. The world turned to chaos behind me—soldiers yelling, safeties clicking off, orders barked through radios.

They weren't asking questions.

They were going to kill me on sight.

I didn't blame them.

I veered left, down a flight of stairs two at a time, nearly slipping on the last one as bullets chewed through the wall behind me. I hit the ground running, breath ragged, blood singing in my ears.

Someone rounded the corner up ahead, rifle raised. I dropped low, rolled, and came up firing—two shots to the vest, enough to knock him flat without killing him.

Not his fault.
Not his war.
Not my target.

Another came after me—Sergeant Miller. I knew him. He used to bring me coffee when I worked late in Ops. He shouted something, gun shaking, eyes wide with disbelief.

I fired once. The round caught the wall beside his head, and he dove for cover.

"Don't follow me!" I snapped as I passed, but I didn't know if he heard me.