Foden lay sprawled on the cold steel, his back screaming in pain, his breathing shallow. The Chief's command echoed in his ears like a slap to the soul:
"Stay the fuck down."
But grief doesn't listen to reason.And fury never stays buried for long.
Foden gritted his teeth, tasted blood, and pushed himself up — slow, shaking, wild-eyed. His fists trembled at his sides.
The Chief watched him, unimpressed, wiping a smear of crimson from his nose with a scowl.
"You should've died out there," the Chief muttered, voice like rusted steel. "But instead, she did."
That was it.
Foden's eyes flared like gas meeting flame.He launched himself with a roar that shook the walls.
"SHE DIED BECAUSE OF YOU!"
He hit the Chief like a freight train.They slammed into a rack of bolted-down lockers, the clang deafening.
This time, Foden fought differently.
It wasn't just blind rage — it was grief sharpened into a weapon.He ducked under a swing, grabbed the Chief's waist, and with a growl like an animal, hip-slammed him hard onto the concrete floor.
The bunker shook.
The Chief grunted, stunned — and for a split second, Foden was on top of him, arm cocked, fist ready to bring down something final, something unforgivable.
But then—
"Stand down! Down now!"
The door burst open.Guards. Three of them.
They moved fast — tasers drawn, boots thundering across the floor.
"Foden, STOP!"
He didn't.
He brought his arm down, but before it landed—ZAP.
Electricity ripped through his body like wildfire.He spasmed violently, collapsed sideways, his scream twisting into static.
Another jolt.
Crack. Buzz. Thud.
Foden convulsed, eyes wide, the scent of burning cloth and ozone filling the room.
Then silence.
He lay still — breathless, twitching.
The Chief slowly pulled himself up, groaning, face bruised, lip split.He stared down at the young fighter, chest rising and falling.
One of the guards glanced at him nervously.
"Orders, sir?"
The Chief didn't answer immediately.He reached up, adjusted his eye patch, spat blood to the side… and then muttered:
"Put him in holding. Let him cool off. He wants war? He'll get it."
He turned away without another word.
The guards grabbed Foden's limp arms and began dragging him across the floor — past the overturned chairs, the bloodstains, and the cracked light above.
As they disappeared into the corridor, the whispers started again.
But this time… they were louder.