The red mist hadn't moved for a while.
Erika sat with her back to the cold tile wall of the ruined café, knees pulled up to her chest, rifle propped against the counter beside her. The place reeked of spoiled milk and burnt plastic, but she had stopped noticing. Her mind was focused on the radio.
And the silence it carried.
She adjusted the dial one more time, switching frequencies, fingers shaking from more than just fatigue.
"Echo-7 to MOA Control. Anyone reading this? Please respond."
Nothing.
Only static.
And then—crackling.
A faint voice pushed through the noise.
"Echo-7… this is MOA… acknowledge…"
She gripped the receiver tighter. "Control! I read you! I'm alive! Repeat, I'm still alive!"
The voice came clearer now, Marcus's tone steady but clinical. "Erika… we have you on drone visuals. Maintain current position. No exfil at this time. Standby for further instruction."
She blinked.
Her stomach turned.
"What?" she said, though she already knew what it meant.
