I stared down at the Black woman still clutching my pant leg, her grip weak and desperate. The air was thick with the stench of metal and fish guts, a nauseating combination that hit me hard, turning my stomach. Blood, congealed and dark like tar, was splattered across the carpet around her, a grim reminder of whatever nightmare she'd been dragged through. What the hell had happened here? I'd seen a lot since everything went to hell—blood, chaos, death—but this...this was something else.

She lay there, one eye swollen and blackened, the other staring up at me with a look that was both pleading and hollow, like she wasn't sure whether to hope or give up entirely. Her skin was drained of color, a sickly pale that made her look almost ghostly against the grime of the floor. Her body trembled, each shallow breath rattling as if it might be her last. I could see it happening—the life slipping out of her, ebbing away with every second that passed. It was like watching a candle burn down, flickering on the edge of darkness, and if I didn't act fast, that tiny flame would go out forever.

The Psychotics had done this. They'd left her here to die slowly, left her to rot like she was nothing, just another casualty in their twisted game of gore. Outside, I could still hear the gunfire and distant screams echoing down the alley, but it felt like it was happening in another world. They were pulling out now, retreating to whatever shithole they crawled out from.

"Rookie, let's go!" the voice of my Captain snapped me back to reality, his tone impatient, harsh.

I hesitated, my heart pounding like a drum in my chest. She needed help, that much was clear. But we had our orders—clear the building, search for supplies, bring back anything useful for The Sanctuary—except for people. No room for sympathy, no time for hesitation. Keep your head down. Keep moving.

"I found a woman bleeding out. She needs medical care," I shouted, voice cutting through the darkness.

"Leave that bitch here," A shadow appeared in the doorway. I didn't have to look back to know that it was Cannon. He was beefy and always had a cigar in his mouth, a scowl on his face, and a gun in his hand. He was the captain of these raids. He gave zero shits about anyone and would leave them behind if it meant saving his ass. "What the fuck are you doing? Leave her here or I will kill her right now!"

But then I looked at her again and saw the tears that streaked her face, mixing with the blood.

"Please," she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath.

A choice sat before me, the kind that could cost me everything—my future, my place in the Sanctuary, maybe even my life. But I knew that if I turned my back on her, if I walked away, I'd never be able to live with myself.

Can you walk?" I asked, eyeing her half-dead state once more. She was in rough shape— The thought of carrying her through a gun-ridden hallway was absurd. This wasn't some heroic movie moment, and I was no Forrest Gump. My energy was already shot from this whole miserable raid that had turned up nothing but a couple of cases of water, a few boxes of canned goods, and a pile of corpses. A total fucking waste of time.

She gave the slightest nod, a faint glimmer of acknowledgment. I set my assault rifle against the wall, squatting down to help her sit up. Her clothes were soaked through, the flashlight revealing dark red mixed with sweat. Her hair was a tangled mess, thick and dark, clinging to her skin in clumps. The curls, barely recognizable now, framed her hollowed face, adding a haunting softness to her exhausted expression. Strands caught the dim light, revealing a deep chestnut beneath the grime, a reminder of the life she'd had before this nightmare.

Just as I was about to lift her, a sharp metallic click sliced through the silence. I froze, peering over my shoulder. Cannon stood behind me, his gun cocked and aimed, eyes narrowed into a scowl that could cut steel. With a rough jerk, he spit his cigar onto the floor, grinding it under his boot.

"I'll kill you too, kid," he growled, voice low and dripping with menace. "I don't care who your dad is."

The threat hung heavy in the air. My blood ran cold, but I kept my grip steady, feeling her shallow breaths against my side.

Beads of sweat dotted my forehead. There was a ninety-eight percent chance that me and this horrid-smelling woman would die tonight by Cannon's hands, and knowing that I was still going to do what the hell I wanted in this chaos, which was get this woman out of here alive—or at least try. I wasn't this heartless asshole standing over me. I used my strength and slowly raised with her and turned to face Cannon. My jaw twitched at the pistol aimed at my head.

I hunched her up and she managed to get her arm over my shoulder, and I put my arm around her waist to steady her, she groaned taking in a deep breath and eased it out through her nose.

"I'll give you one more chance to drop that bitch, or I'll drop the both of you," Cannon warned.

I locked eyes with him, face blank and unflinching. "Fuck you. Pull the trigger or get the hell out of my way."

Cannon's gaze flickered. Something dark passed over his face before he lowered his gun. His jaw tightened, and he let out a low, controlled breath, barely concealing the warning threaded through his words. "You know what happens if you bring her to The Sanctuary."

I knew. The rules, the consequences—they were crystal clear. But right now, none of that mattered. I could feel Cannon's eyes on me, waiting for me to back down, to walk away and leave her bleeding out on the floor. Logically, it would've been smarter, cleaner; to leave her here and pretend I hadn't seen her. Bringing her back would make her my problem, maybe even put a target on my back. And yet, there was something in her eyes—desperation, a fierce will to survive—that cut through every bit of protocol and warning screaming in my head.

She wasn't giving up, not yet. And somehow, that simple, pleading look had been enough to tip the scales in her favor.

I took a steadying breath. I'd deal with the fallout when I got back. Right now, all that mattered was getting them out of there in one piece.

See, the difference between The Psychotics and The Sanctuary was The Psychotics were out in the open with their depravity. The sadistic dicks at The Sanctuary were good at hiding their masochistic, twisted exploits, and depending on your rank beyond the fortified walls, you could openly do what you wanted, and everyone would turn their heads like cowards. Me included. My dad was the highest-ranking general and a sick son-of-a bitch.

 "Move," I glared at Cannon.

Cannon sighed heavily, his jaw tightening as he slowly holstered his gun. He shot me a stern look,  "Fine," he growled. "I'll carry her. You cover me, asshole."

Before I could protest, he bent down and scooped her up, wedding style. A low, agonized groan escaped her as he lifted her, and he visibly recoiled, his face twisting in disgust. "Damn,"  his voice dripped with revulsion. "This bitch is foul,"

I didn't respond and snapped my rifle up, barrel aimed dead ahead, finger hovering just above the trigger. Adrenalin rushed through my veins. My eyes darted from shadow to shadow, scanning every inch before me as we exited the room and moved into the hallway. Each door, every dark corner, felt like it was hiding something, some threat lying in wait for the perfect moment to strike. The hallway stretched out before us, narrow and dark, filled with the nauseating stench of death and decay, 

Cannon followed close behind, steady and unfazed, carrying the woman with ease despite her deadweight. He was tall and stocky, all muscle, moving with the kind of casual strength that said he'd done this a thousand times before. The woman hung limp in his arms, her head resting against his chest, and he didn't flinch, didn't miss a beat. His steps were as steady as mine, his breathing low and controlled, as though carrying her was as effortless as lifting a sack of supplies. "You're insane, Rome."

"I know."

Cannon hummed a chuckle.