The radio crackles with bad news. A civilian wandered into the ambush your rival laid for you — wrong street, wrong second, wrong war. Your men are waiting on your call. Let him take the hit, or burn your position to pull him out. Your rival already knows the answer. He didn't pick this boy by accident. He picked him because mercy is the one trap you can't shoot your way out of. You pull the boy out alive. But now he's seen your face, your men, your world. The only place the rival can't reach him is at your side. The problem isn't keeping him safe. The problem is the way he looks at you — like you're the first solid thing he's ever had to hold onto.