Advanced Combat

Kyle waited, still crouched behind the collapsed shelf.

When the lead man's boots came into view, Kyle exploded into motion.

He grabbed the knife holstered on the man's thigh, twisted, and brought him down with a sweep of his leg. Before the second man could raise his rifle, Kyle slammed his elbow into the side of his neck, taking him to the floor. The third reached for his radio—Kyle snatched the fallen dagger and flipped it expertly into his hand, slicing upward just enough to knock the weapon free before flipping the man onto his back with one brutal twist.

All three were immobilized.

Kyle didn't kill them.

He dragged their bodies aside as the girl watched, eyes unblinking, her breath muffled under the scarf. Her expression had shifted—no longer annoyed. Now it was something more complex. Calculating.

Kyle moved fast. He yanked another dagger from one of the fallen and turned, scanning toward the back of the store. Through the haze, he saw a faint silhouette just beginning to push through the exit.

"Swshhht."

The blade flew straight and silent, striking the man in the side of his knee and dropping him without a sound.

Kyle was already moving. He knelt, eyes darting across the bodies.

He examined the rifles quickly, testing the weight, balance, and charge. One of them—a short-barrel carbine—felt right. He checked the ammo, then swept up two magazines from a fallen belt, sliding them into his pockets with fluid precision.

The girl continued to watch in silence as he turned and crept toward the side door, his movements almost noiseless.

He peered past the frame, baiting a shot.

A round pinged just beside his head.

Kyle didn't flinch. Instead, he narrowed his eyes and leaned out just enough to see—

More of them.

Not just one or two. Four. Maybe five. All emerging like phantoms from behind cars and alleys. One of them stepped out of a shadow so smoothly that Kyle almost didn't see him until he moved.

Kyle's blood ran cold.

He pulled back and flattened against the wall.

The street—normally buzzing with people, food trucks, old women with shopping bags, and tired workers on lunch break—was completely empty.

No cars passed. No voices shouted.

"How is this possible?" Kyle whispered. "This place is never this quiet."

Something was wrong. Deeply, terribly wrong.

"Who are they?" the girl asked, her voice low but steady, watching Kyle switch weapons.

He tucked his long dark hair behind his ears, strands damp from sweat and smoke. Without turning, he reached for a different rifle—longer range, better optics—and slung the short-barrel carbine over his shoulder for close-quarter backup.

"I don't know," Kyle replied, peering through the scope, his cheek pressed against the cold metal. "And I don't know why they're here."

She scoffed, brushing a shard of glass off her jeans. "You don't know?" she said, half-laughing, half-spitting the words. "Cut the stranger act. Don't pretend you don't know they're here for me."

Kyle's eye twitched. His finger lifted from the trigger.

What's her problem? he thought, irritated. I'm saving her life and she's acting like I'm part of the plan, or someone on her payroll.

But now wasn't the time for wandering thoughts.

He tapped her shoulder and pointed to the cashier's counter—a deeper spot shielded by a metal doorframe and a fallen display rack. "There," he said. "Hide there and don't move. Wait for my signal."

She hesitated, then nodded and moved low and quick, joining the terrified cashier, who was crouched in fetal position, arms wrapped around his shotgun like it was a loved one.

Kyle exhaled slowly.

It began.

Bullets erupted again—this time more coordinated. They were trying to flank. He ducked behind the drink fridge and peeked out just as two masked men moved in parallel across the store's left and right lanes. Kyle's brain calculated their spread, the delay in their bursts, the time it would take them to reload.

He moved like water.

Pivoting left, he fired once. A clean hit to the thigh. The enemy dropped, gun clattering. Kyle rolled over the counter, hair flying, and slid to cover on the right aisle. He lifted the rifle just as the second attacker aimed down toward the broken shelf.

Too slow.

Two clean shots.

The recoil kicked his shoulder, his white shirt darkening with sweat. His aim didn't waver. The man hit the ground hard and didn't move again.

Another shadow moved past the shattered front door—Kyle shifted his weight, anticipating.

He took a breath. Let his mind quiet.

Then, like flipping a switch, he moved.

He dashed between cover, crouching low, rifle cradled tight against his chest, controlling his silhouette. He never lingered in open space for more than half a second. His boots gripped the tile without a sound. Every step calculated.

He didn't want to use his short-range weapon, because that would mean certain death. Little did he know someone would soon help him complete the task.

One attacker climbed atop a fallen shelf for height—Kyle saw the legs first.

A burst of rounds punched into the metal frame next to him, ricocheting hot sparks onto his forearm. He flinched, but didn't lose focus.

He took a knee, lined the sight with the center of mass, and fired once. The enemy spun midair before hitting the floor.

The girl peeked around the edge of the counter. Her eyes were no longer annoyed. They were sharp. Curious.

She wasn't used to watching people like Kyle move through a fight.

His hair trailed him like a banner, his body tense with practiced strength, his accuracy clinical. The blue in his eyes flickered with something—intelligence honed into instinct.