First message
She doesn’t see them yet, but I always do. The dead have time to think; we’re not distracted by blood or breathing. Just the mission.
“Eyes up, soldier,” I say, my voice steady despite the noise in her skull. She flinches, knowing I’m there. It’s a half-muscle, half-fear twitch. She feels my presence like a weight or a whisper.
Three targets ahead, close and sloppy. One’s reloading, and another’s too trigger-happy.
“Now. Move.”
She moves.
I watch her go, silent and smooth, like I trained her. She doesn’t remember that training, not really. But somewhere deep inside, she still hears my footsteps behind hers. Still smells oil and sweat and cordite. Still hears my voice barking orders in the middle of the night. Some days, I wonder if I’m just a ghost, hanging on by guilt and old adrenaline. Other days—most days—I know I’m the part of her that refuses to die. The part that won’t stop fighting, no matter how torn up her body gets. She thinks I’m a hallucination. A leftover trauma.