Each Battle

Seyfe pulled the trigger—click.

His eyes narrowed. No recoil. No shot.

"Who the fuck uses an incomplete ammoed gun?" he muttered, tossing the useless weapon aside just as the first of the four operatives broke through the dust and shadows of the building.

The building was skeletal—concrete, exposed wires, echoing metal. Floodlights flickered overhead, powered by a rattling generator box bolted to the wall. The scent of dry cement, rust, and electrical ozone hung thick in the air.

Seyfe crouched low behind a stack of sacks filled with cement soil, the silence broke with the sound of boots scattering loose gravel.

Four figures entered.

Each armed.

Each precise.

No wasted movements.

They didn't speak—didn't need to.

Each four of them wielded 

A Baton

A Spear

A Gauntlet

Lastly Twin daggers

They fanned out immediately. It wasn't improvisation—it was trained coordination.

The baton wielder feinted right.

The dagger user disappeared into the shadows.

The gauntlet-user charged center.

And the spearman anchored the formation at the rear.

All at once.

Seyfe didn't hesitate—he tore open a sack of cement, releasing a cloud of dust into the air, then bolted left toward a stack of steel pipes.

The gauntlet-user came barreling through the dust and swung—CLANG! Seyfe caught the blow with a pipe, the shock running up his arms. He fell back—just in time to see the baton arc toward his face.

He ducked.

The baton skimmed over his head.

The dagger user struck from behind—Seyfe barely dodged, the blade nicking his side.

Too fast. Too unified.

He rolled backward and grabbed a shovel leaning against the scaffolding. He spun it around with practiced rhythm.

"You want to dance? Fine."

Seyfe sprinted toward the generator box and kicked it hard—flickering the lights violently. Sparks spat out from a loosened light fuse, bathing the room in epileptic pulses of shadow and glare.

In the confusion, he hurled the shovel like a spear at the spearman—forcing him to sidestep and break the formation.

Seyfe grabbed a cement block and launched it with both arms toward the baton wielder—it smashed into his shoulder and sent him tumbling.

Now he moved.

He slid across the slick floor, grabbing a bucket of water, then quickly hurled it at the gauntlet-user's legs. The brute slipped—THUMP!—and hit the floor with a growl.

Seyfe then grabbed a loose electrical wire hanging near a steel support column and whipped it forward, its live end snapping sparks through the air.

ZZZT!

He lashed the baton wielder across the chest. Sparks burst on contact. The man screamed, convulsed—and crumpled.

They adjusted.

Spearman and dagger moved in sync now—one sweeping wide arcs, forcing distance; the other closing in like a ghost.

Seyfe dove behind scattered concrete panels. The dagger slashed into them, chipping away until Seyfe retaliated—swinging a pipe from below and smashing the assassin's wrist.

The dagger flew.

Seyfe kicked the assassin into the spearman's path. For a heartbeat, their momentum faltered.

That's all he needed.

He dragged a metal beam across the floor, its ends sparking across the exposed wire pool he had created earlier with the bucket of water. Then—he threw a second water bucket to complete the current.

The electricity surged through the floor.

Both enemies screamed as the current arced through their legs and into the steel scaffolding behind them.

Seyfe moved fast.

He grabbed a jagged piece of broken rebar, sprinted past the two stunned enemies, and speared the dagger wielder in the side, not lethally—just enough to drop him.

Only the gauntlet-user remained.

Breathing hard.

Covered in dust.

He roared and charged again.

Seyfe pretended to trip—falling beside a mound of dry cement soil.

As the brute approached, Seyfe kicked the sack at his head, bursting powder in his face again. Blinded, the man swung wildly—Seyfe ducked the first blow and slammed the pipe into his kneecap.

Then again.

And again.

The brute went down to one knee.

Seyfe grabbed the shovel again, lifted it high, and cracked it across the back of the enemy's head.

Silence.

Four men.

Out cold or barely conscious.

Seyfe's shoulders rose and fell.

Sweat and grime covered him, but he didn't stop—he rushed to the locker, threw it open.

Henzel stumbled out, pale, trembling.

"You—You killed them…"

Seyfe stared at him coldly. "You're lucky I didn't let them take you."

The sniper's breath came out in quick, panicked gasps, chest heaving beneath Ferez's knee.

"Who sent you?" Ferez asked, voice cold, calm.

No answer.

The sniper's gloved hand twitched toward his belt.

Crack.

Ferez drove an elbow straight into the man's sternum, forcing the air out of him.

"I said—who sent you?"Still nothing.

The sniper's head tilted slightly, eyes flicking sideways—then a flash of a smirk.

A distraction.

Ferez's instincts kicked in. He grabbed the rifle slung nearby, flipped it, and used the butt to smash the spotter drone hidden under a tarp beside them. A soft, pulsing red light fizzled out.

"Deadman switch," Ferez muttered, tossing the rifle aside.

The sniper coughed out blood, laughing.

"You're already too late."

That was all he needed to hear.

With one final strike to the temple, the sniper went limp.

Ferez stood quickly and looked over the ledge just in time to see three vehicles rerouting, avoiding the main road. Toward the east alleys.

Toward Seyfe.

He bolted across the roof, vaulting vents and ducking under metal girders, using the elevation to track the convoy's progress.

"Three cars. Too many for just Seyfe. Shit."

He activated the earpiece in his collar. Static. The jammers were still live.

He descended a narrow maintenance ladder to a lower roof level. As he hit the landing, a figure emerged from behind an AC unit.

Quick draw.

Ferez blocked the knife slash with his forearm, stepped in, and used the attacker's momentum to flip him over the edge. A solid thud below confirmed the drop had done its job.

But then came another.

Two shadows dropped behind him from a zipline—silent, fast.

One swung a machete, the other had twin hooked knives.

Ferez ducked under the first, caught the hook of the second between his baton and forearm, and twisted the blade free with a precise torque. He planted a heel into the attacker's chest and spun to crack the baton across the machete wielder's ribs.

They weren't disorganized.

They were synchronized—trained in tandem.

The two regrouped without a word and attacked together—hooks coming high, machete sweeping low. Ferez kicked a pile of loose tiles toward their feet to stall them. It worked.

For a second.

He lunged, grabbed the hook wielder's wrist, pulled him in, and used his own body weight to roll the attacker over the side rail—snapping the grapple cable he wore.

The machete slashed, carving through Ferez's coat sleeve.

Too close.

Ferez dropped the baton, reached for his fallback weapon—a tactical penknife hidden in his boot—and jammed it through the attacker's wrist, forcing a scream out.

"Tell me who's watching Seyfe!"

"Go to hell!"

"You first."

With a twist, Ferez shoved the attacker backward and sent him crashing into the rooftop power box. Sparks burst violently as the man convulsed and dropped.

Ferez breathed heavily, blood dripping from his arm. He looked toward the construction site.

A cloud of dust rose from the eastern side. Sounds of clashing metal. A gunshot, then nothing. Then—

A low boom.

"Seyfe."

He sprinted forward, slid down the edge of the rooftop onto a connected scaffold, and leapt to a smaller building closer to the alleyway.

The radio in his earpiece crackled once.

"—location compromised. Multiple heat signals—""Seyfe—under attack—evasive—"

Too late for full response teams. He was the only one close enough.

Ferez pressed a hand over his bleeding arm and forced himself to keep going. His eyes scanned ahead as the building came into view—

Under-construction frame. Multiple breach points. One target trying to hold the line.

Dust floated through the empty air like ash. The silence after violence always felt heavy.

Seyfe wiped cement and blood off his face with the back of his sleeve, pacing his breath. Four enemies down. Limbs twisted, weapons scattered, the flicker of sparks still blinking from the compromised generator box. His elbow throbbed, knuckles bruised from striking concrete and flesh alike.

Behind him, Henzel sat tucked into the back of the locker, curled into himself like prey hiding from a predator.

"You still breathing?" Seyfe muttered without looking back.

A whimper.

"Good."

He retrieved one of the jagged spears from the fallen and checked the shaft's balance. It would do. But the air had changed—again. Subtler this time.

More were coming. But not for him.

He moved to the second floor window and peered through the scaffolding.

Movement.

"Ferez..." he murmured, jaw clenching.

Then, he slipped back into shadow. His part of this dance was done—for now.

Ferez hit the final steel beam and dropped down onto the cracked pavement with a grunt. Just ahead, the skeletal frame of the building Seyfe had fought in loomed like a ghostly colossus.

He felt the aftermath in the air. Burnt ozone. Blood. Vibrations of conflict now quieted.

"Seyfe's done. But I'm not."

He moved low, baton drawn again, his other hand nursing the slash across his arm. He could still hear it—footsteps, approaching fast from the far alley.

Three. Maybe four.

He ducked into cover behind a pile of stacked planks, crouching beside a rusted cement mixer. Then he saw them.

Four operatives, closing in toward the building. Two moved with rifles drawn; another with a short glaive slung over his shoulder, and the last was clearly tech—the way he scanned the terrain, HUD visor lighting up as he pointed toward the interior.

"Not going for Seyfe... they're here for cleanup."

"Wrong job," Ferez muttered under his breath.

He waited for the lead to cross the corner—then pulled the wire from the loose generator cable near the mixer and jammed it into a puddle of water. Sparks burst underfoot.

Two screamed as electricity danced across their boots.

Ferez lunged from cover and drove his baton hard into the glaive-wielder's ribs, using the shock to knock him off balance. The glaive came swinging—Ferez ducked under, rolled, and jammed his knee into the man's leg, dropping him.

Only the tech remained, visor scanning wildly.

"You're the one who hacked our lines, aren't you?" Ferez asked coldly.

The tech pulled a sidearm, but Ferez was faster—he threw a bucket from the cement pile right into the man's face, then tackled him into a scaffolding pole.

The man fired once. Missed.

Ferez wrestled the gun away, slammed the man's head into the steel bar, and let him drop with a groan.

He panted, his ears ringing. Then silence.

Only the wind.

He stood, blood dripping from his fingers, and looked toward the building.

He could see the faint silhouette of Seyfe moving out the back with Henzel.