Marco called for air support. Desperate times, desperate calls. Out of all the squadrons, out of all the aces that could've answered... it had to be you. Figures. He should've known the universe had a sick sense of humor.

The rain came down in sheets, relentless and cold, soaking Marco to the bone. His uniform clung like a second skin, caked with blood, mud, and smoke. Every movement was a reminder of how long he'd been fighting, how much his body wanted to give up—but he didn't have that luxury. Around him, the battlefield was chaos: mortars shrieked through the air, the earth trembled with every detonation, tracer rounds carved fire across the blackened horizon. The comms were broken with static and fear. His squad was pinned. Ammunition low. Morale gone. This wasn't a mission anymore—it was a slaughter waiting to happen.

Marco dragged a hand across his drenched face and tilted his head back, staring into the storming sky like it owed him a million dollars. Thunder cracked above, rolling through the heavens, and for a moment he swore the universe was mocking him. Every instinct screamed that this was the end, that there was no saving them—but then... a sound that didn't belong to the storm cut through the chaos.