Another explosion rumbles somewhere ahead.
Closer still.
The truck speeds up.
Amira’s fingers shake against mine.
“I don’t want to die,” she whispers.
The words hit harder than they should.
Because she’s sixteen.
Because she should be worried about school and friends and stupid boys—
Not this.
“You’re not dying today,” I say firmly.
And somehow my voice actually sounds steady.
Years ago, before the survival course, maybe it wouldn’t have.
But six months of training changes people.
Cold.
Hunger.
Interrogation resistance.
Combat stress.
Isolation.
They broke us down until panic became useless.
I hated every second of it.
Right up until now.
Because now?
Now my mind stays clear while chaos explodes around us.
And that might be the only reason any of us survive this.
The injured man groans quietly as I tighten the makeshift bandage around his leg.
I need supplies.
Antibiotics.
Clean gauze.
Pain medication.
Instead I’ve got dirty cloth and luck.
