"Load every fucking weapon. This is war."

The march had been relentless, but the tension had only grown heavier.

Every kilometer they covered brought them closer to headquarters, but also closer to the unknown.

"Marchand!" Moreau called, eyes locked ahead.

His scout turned immediately, adjusting his rifle on his shoulder. "Sir!"

Moreau's voice was firm, commanding.

"I want eyes ahead. No more fucking surprises. Take your fastest men and get moving. Do not engage unless absolutely necessary. If you see anything suspicious, report immediately. Got it?"

Marchand gave a sharp nod. "Understood. We'll be ghosts."

"Make sure of it, because if we walk into another shitstorm, I swear to God, someone's going to fucking pay."

Without another word, Marchand and two other scouts sprinted ahead, vanishing into the trees.

He didn't trust this.

Not one damn bit.

Marchand moved like a phantom through the trees, his footsteps muffled by the damp forest floor.