1
Clay
Clay stood in the doorway of the last room, weapon raised, breathing slow and even as he swept the corners one final time.
Dust floated through thin strips of morning light, cutting between broken boards. The air smelled stale. Old concrete. Burned wiring. Abandoned too long.
Nothing moved.
No threats.
No footsteps.
No breathing except his own.
“Clear,” he said quietly.
His voice barely echoed before Lucas answered through comms.
“Clear.”
Then Miles.
“Clear.”
Good.
Clay lowered his weapon slightly but kept scanning anyway. Habit. Repetition. Discipline.
That was what kept men alive.
Not luck.
Not instincts.
Not hope.
Habit.
Boots scraped behind him.
“You’re slow today,” Miles muttered as he stepped into the doorway.
Clay didn’t turn immediately. His eyes tracked the room one more time before settling on the hall beyond it.
“I’m thorough.”
“You’re stiff.”
That made him look over.
Miles leaned casually against the frame, rifle hanging low, expression annoyingly entertained.
Clay shifted slightly.
Pain tugged sharply through his ribs.
Hot.
