The air in Sardoviac smelled of smoke and iron.
Martin stepped off the transport truck, boots sinking into mud thick with blood and rain. The sky was a bruised gray, heavy with clouds that seemed to press down on the earth. The gunfire that cracked in the distance was sharp and relentless.

He gripped his rifle tighter, feeling the weight of it; Around him, soldiers moved with grim purpose, their faces hard, their eyes hollow. They were men who had seen too much, and Martin was about to join their ranks.

"Second Lieutenant Hale!" A voice barked from behind. Martin turned to see Captain Varga, a broad-shouldered man with a scar slicing across his cheek. His gaze was sharp, assessing. "You're with the 67th. We hold this line, or we die trying."

Martin nodded, his jaw set. "Understood."

Varga studied him for a moment, then gave a curt nod. "You've got fire in your eyes, Hale. Don't let it burn you alive."

The first battle came at dawn.

Martin crouched behind a shattered wall, the ground trembling as shells exploded in the distance. The air was thick with smoke, choking and acrid. He could taste fear; his own and everyone else's. But beneath it, something darker pulsed in his veins. Rage. Purpose. The memory of Clara's smile, Lily's laughter, Rose's tiny hands. Gone. All gone.

"Move!" Varga's voice roared over the chaos.

Martin surged forward, boots pounding the mud, rifle raised. Bullets screamed past his ears, biting into stone and flesh. He fired without hesitation, each shot a release, a promise kept. Enemy soldiers fell; faces he didn't know, lives he didn't care about. All he saw was the war that had stolen everything.

He killed and kept killing.

When the smoke cleared, Martin stood among the ruins, his chest heaving, his hands slick with sweat and blood. Around him lay bodies; Karasnikov and Sardoviac alike. The silence was deafening, broken only by the distant wail of the wounded.

Martin didn't flinch. He didn't mourn. He felt nothing but the cold satisfaction of survival.

Weeks turned into months. Martin became a name whispered in the trenches; a soldier who never hesitated, never faltered. He led charges through gunfire, rallied men when hope was gone, and carved paths through enemy lines with ruthless precision. His commanders praised him. His men followed him. And Martin kept moving forward, because stopping meant feeling, and feeling meant breaking.

The war began to tip in Karasnikov's favor. Every victory was soaked in blood, and Martin was always at the center, driving, pushing, killing. He told himself it was for Clara, for Lily, for Rose. But deep down, he knew the truth: it was for himself.

One night, after a brutal skirmish, Martin sat alone by a dying fire, cleaning his rifle. His hands moved with mechanical precision, but his mind drifted as the fire crackled and the sparks flared into the air. He remembered Orange Street, the campfire next to the cabin; his mother, his family and unintentionally....Eugene.

Martin wondered if he was alive. If he had escaped the cage, he hated. If he had found peace in Sardoviac, or if he was out there now, wearing the enemy's uniform, aiming his rifle at men like Martin.