Boom! An explosion shook the ground, sending dust and rocks flying into the air.
In the background, the crack of gunfire and the whistle of shells completed the violent melody. Amid the ensuing chaos, a lone figure moved—deftly navigating the remains of fallen buildings, not fleeing from the carnage but charging straight into its heart.
He was clad in a matte black tactical uniform and sturdy combat boots. A plate carrier, loaded with a Level III plate, protected his chest—custom-fitted with ammo pouches and a combat knife. In his hands, a suppressed assault rifle rested in a low-ready position, equipped with a red-dot sight and a togglable thermal module. His belt held fragmentation and flashbang grenades. Tactical gloves gripped the weapon with practiced precision. A helmet fitted with night vision gear completed the look—designed for stealth, speed, and practicality.
His name: Mark.
Through the swirling dust, his targets came into view—eight men in mismatched, ragged clothes. Some fired AK-style rifles wildly, lacking form or discipline. Others launched mortar rounds in the same direction repeatedly, oblivious to the predator stalking them.
Mark observed. Calculated. Acted.
Eight shots. Eight bodies dropped.
Each round pierced a heart with surgical precision. The threat was neutralized in seconds.
Lowering his weapon, he keyed his radio. "Target group neutralized. Area secure."
No response.
These men were part of the Dust Gang—a rising militia with access to black-market arms dealers supplying them with military-grade equipment. Intel warned of an imminent expansion, possibly into a rogue state. The brass wanted the problem cut out before it took root.
So they sent Mark—a veteran of Afghanistan. From the Marine Corps' Special Recon unit to the elite ranks of Delta Force, he had passed brutal selection, survived black ops missions no one talked about, and emerged as one of the most capable Tier 1 operators alive.
Silent. Precise. Efficient.
Mark wasn't a hero. He was a scalpel. And this operation? Just another incision in a long, bloody history of surgical strikes.
But something felt wrong.
He wasn't excited. He wasn't even satisfied. The targets had been too weak, their tactics too sloppy. The terrain—isolated, tactically irrelevant. None of it added up.
Then came the silence. Still no radio response.
That wasn't just odd—it was impossible. The equipment was top-tier military tech, rugged and fail-proof. There should have been a reply.
A shrill whistling noise cut through the air.
Mark looked up.
A smoking contrail streaked across the sky, angling toward his position. He recognized it instantly.
G63 Supersonic Missile.
A precision-guided death machine, capable of delivering up to 50,000 pounds of explosive force, with an accuracy margin of less than ten feet.
This wasn't a communication failure.
This wasn't a botched extraction.
This was an execution.
And he was the target.
Mark didn't run. He didn't hide. He didn't beg or scream.
He just looked up… and smiled.
"Am I that dangerous?" he chuckled.
Those were Mark's last words.