The flickering torchlight barely illuminated the cavern as General Viktor 'Bloodfang' Kruger stood with arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Behind him, the tunnel entrance gaped like a maw, the sounds of distant gunfire echoing through the underground stronghold. His forces were already engaged with the rebel scum who dared to attack.
Kruger exhaled slowly. He had seen countless battles, crushed hundreds beneath his iron will, and yet the resistance still clung to foolish hope. Hope was a disease—one he took great pleasure in eradicating.
Behind him, Sergeant Darius 'Hellhound' Rook emerged from the shadows, his shotgun slung over his shoulder. "General, we've lost contact with the north perimeter. Either they're dead, or they're too busy fighting to report."
Kruger's fingers twitched against his forearm. "Then we assume they are dead. Which means the enemy is close."
From deeper within the cavern, Eva 'Black Widow' Morales stepped forward, rolling her shoulders. "Do we fall back, or do we send a message?"
Kruger turned slightly, locking eyes with her. His response was simple, cold. "We do what we always do."
Before Morales could respond, a deafening explosion shook the walls, dust and debris raining down from the ceiling. The rebels had breached the outer tunnels. The battle was no longer at a distance—it was here.
Kruger's jaw tightened. "They are more desperate than I thought. Good."
With measured steps, he moved toward the entrance, his gloved hands gripping his weapons. His combat knife gleamed in the dim light, and his sidearm sat ready at his hip. He would not waste bullets on those unworthy of them.
As he stepped outside, the night was alive with fire and chaos. The ruined buildings surrounding the stronghold cast jagged shadows against the flickering flames of battle. His soldiers fought relentlessly, but the rebels were many. For every enemy cut down, another took their place.
Kruger exhaled, his breath steady. This was what he lived for.
A rebel lunged at him from the side, rifle raised. Before the man could fire, Kruger pivoted, driving his knife into the soldier's throat with surgical precision. Blood sprayed across the dirt as the rebel collapsed, gurgling.
Another came at him, screaming—a fool's mistake. Kruger sidestepped, delivering a brutal elbow to the attacker's face, shattering bone. The rebel crumpled at his feet.
More approached. Too many. But Kruger wasn't a man—he was a force of nature.
With a sharp whistle, Reaper-77 emerged from the shadows, his masked figure descending upon the battlefield like a ghost of death. At the same time, Morales engaged a cluster of enemies, her blade dancing through the night.
Kruger wiped the blood from his knife, watching the battle unfold. The rebels thought they had a chance. How pathetic.
As the screams of the dying filled the air, he allowed himself a smirk. Tonight, the resistance would remember why they feared him.