"FIRE IN THE HOLE!"

  The earth-rending blast that followed seemed to tear reality itself apart. The explosion wasn't particularly large or powerful—not compared to the airstrikes they'd witnessed earlier—but the amplification of the shockwave traveling through the confined space hit every fiber of Finch’s being like a sledgehammer. His brain rattled against bone, sending pain lancing through his skull in a way that suggested that if he didn't already have a TBI, he sure as shit was going to have it now.

  A choking cloud of pulverized stone billowed outward, turning the air into a gritty, blinding soup. Through the swirling haze, Finch saw his stack move. It wasn't the smooth, predatory rush of a typical breach, but a hesitant, deliberate advance. Their usual violent action had evaporated, replaced by a more fearful caution that was even more unsettling, causing the Lance Corporal to breathe harder.

  Weapons remained oriented toward the newly created opening in the artificial stone. It hadn't shattered cleanly; instead, it had been completely obliterated, taking chunks of the walls with it. The edges of the breach glowed with a sickly phosphorescent light, wisps of something that wasn't quite smoke curling from where explosive had met magic.

  Finch was close behind the SEALs with the barrel of his M27 aimed upward and snug against his chest in the high ready position. It was hard to tell what was happening from his position in the stack, but he realized he was moving faster than expected. As he neared the breach, he saw Marines on the other side. They mirrored the SEAL entry team from the opposite side, waiting for the operators to come in, each with a look of controlled terror on their face.

  Not that Finch could blame them; the opening itself was somehow wrong. It was too dark, as if light itself was hesitant to enter. It was clear that the retreating force they were chasing had cut the lights, but there was something... off.

  The SEALs felt it too and immediately stopped, causing Finch to bump right into Will. This wasn’t a tactical pause or a moment to assess; they just... stopped.

  The stack compressed like an accordion, each man nearly running into the one ahead as the forward momentum died. Finch could hear confused muttering from behind and feel the pressure of bodies wanting to move forward but unable to.

  "Why are we stopping?" Newman's voice rose higher than usual, coming from right behind us. The Private was trying to look around and over everyone's shoulders, shifting left and right like a kid trying to see past adults at a parade. "What the hell do they see?"

  That's when Finch noticed it too. The SEALs weren't looking through the breach—they were looking at it. At the darkness itself. Because it wasn't empty darkness. It was... occupied with something.

  Will, positioned just ahead of Finch, slowly raised his left hand in a fist—hold position. His head tilted slightly, and Finch could see the tendons in his neck standing out like cables under tension.

  "What’s going on—" Newman started again, but Reyes's hand clamped over his mouth.

  "Shut. The fuck. Up," Reyes hissed, barely audible.

  Newman’s jaw immediately clenched and tightened with an audible click as Reyes withdrew his hand. For a solid minute, they lingered there in that threshold between light and darkness. Nobody was willing to be the first to cross into what looked like the point of no return. And so, the silence stretched like taffy, broken only by the distant moans of the wounded behind them and Finch’s pounding heart.

  Finally, the Pointman took a step forward, followed by the operator behind him. The movement rippled back through the stack like a reluctant wave, each man forcing himself to follow the one ahead at a slow, deliberate pace.

  The moment Finch turned the corner into the breached tunnel, everything changed instantly and intensely. Blinding weapon lights from the SEALs ahead pierced the darkness like surgical knives, their beams flickering across walls that seemed to swallow the light rather than reflect it. But what truly made his skin crawl was the silence.

  Now that he was inside, the entire tunnel had fallen eerily silent except for those deep, ragged, guttural breaths. At first, Finch thought it was coming from himself and was just huffing like a panicked idiot, but no. This was coming from much deeper within, echoing off the stone in a way that made distance impossible to determine. It sounded pained, labored, as if whatever was making it was on its last legs.

  But more importantly, it didn't sound even remotely human.

  The group moved forward quietly, and Finch noticed space widening between him and the SEAL team he's attached to. They spread out further, creating gaps—standard procedure, but it made him feel exposed and vulnerable. Then they halted again.

  Will shifted slightly, his voice barely a whisper: "Get your NODs on."

  The weapon lights in front suddenly vanished, plunging them into complete darkness.

  Finch's hands trembled as he lowered his weapon, letting it hang from its sling while he fumbled for the utility pouch at his side. His fingers, slick with sweat despite the cool air, struggled with the simple buckle. Behind him, he heard the whispered relay: "NODs on... NODs on..."

  He pulled out his PVS-31s, the night vision goggles feeling unfamiliar in his trembling hands. The mounting bracket clicked into place on his helmet after two failed attempts, making an impossible loud sound in the black silence. Finch flipped them down, then realized they weren't aligned with his eyes—too high, off to the left.

  Panic made his movements clumsy as he kept fiddling and adjusting the mount. He ended up pushing them too far out or too far in until the white phosphorus-tinted world finally focused, just as his breathing began to hyperventilate.

  That's when he saw it.

  A dark liquid was smeared across the ground. Thick black streaks were clearly outlined by the infrared weapon lights toggled on, making them visible through the phosphorescent glow of night vision. It wasn't pooled or splattered—it was dragged in long, uneven strokes in the direction they were heading. What made the scene even more eerie was that the trail was far too wide for just one body, and there were... marks in it. Handprints, maybe, or something trying to claw its way along.

  Finch gulped hard, his throat clicking dry, but he forced himself to think logically. These were most likely the enemy, dragging their wounded away. That's what you did. That's what they'd been doing just minutes ago with their own casualties. Standard procedure. Nothing weird about it.

  But god damn did it still freak him the fuck out.

  Behind him, Finch heard the distinctive sounds of someone messing with their gear—the plastic-on-plastic scraping of NODs being attached wrong, the frustrated breathing that came with panic making simple tasks impossible.

  "I can't—shit, I can't get them—" Pham's voice still hushed, but loud enough to catch everyone’s attention. "They won't—"

  Instead of the usual barrage of insults that would follow a boot's incompetence, Newman's voice came through, equally shaky but trying for steady: "Here, man. Here."

  Through his own white-tinted world, Finch caught glimpses of Newman helping the inexperienced Marine. "Push in first, then down. No—here, feel that notch? That's where it locks."

  It was surreal seeing Newman—the perpetual screw-up who couldn't go a week without an NJP—actually being helpful. Fear had a way of stripping away the bullshit, leaving only what mattered.

  The stack of Marines and operators kept moving deeper into the tunnel, though at a pace that made Finch want to scream. Every step was careful and deliberate, as if they were walking through a minefield. Which, considering magic was involved, they might as well be.

  Then his radio crackled to life in his ear: "Three doors left, one hallway right."

  Finch's heart rate spiked up another notch. For the moment, he couldn’t tell who the hell was peaking until he finally remembered that he switched his comms over to the SEAL team's frequency when they'd been integrated.

  A moment later, everyone started to redistribute themselves along the tunnel walls. Finch found himself being corralled toward the center of the hallway as Will motioned for them to push past. The SEAL's movements were economical, practiced—a hand gesture here, a shoulder squeeze, creating order from chaos without a word spoken.

  Keeping his weapon at a high ready, Finch couldn’t help but admire the operators as they worked. Some SEALs had their weapons trained on open doorways, slowly pieing the corners while solo operators covered the closed doors, maintaining security while the others cleared. Finch was by no means an expert like these guys, but he knew enough CQB theory to understand the control and security bubbles they were creating. There were overlapping fields of fire with absolutely no dead space.

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  Every angle covered, and no one was leaving anything to chance.

  "Bump three doors." Will, acting as the flow controller, ordered Finch and his fireteam right.

  The words cut through his fear like a knife. Now that Finch had work, his training kicked in, overriding the terror that had been paralyzing him. He didn't need to be told twice.

  Finch pushed past Will with sudden aggression. His rifle settled smoothly and snugly against his shoulder as he pressed the pressure pads and illuminated the tunnel with his IR illuminator and laser. The invisible beam sliced through the darkness, visible only through the NODs as a bright line following the direction of his muzzle.

  The last door was still uncleared as Finch pushed past, but the goal was to move fast enough to prevent someone from getting a solid shot off so he could maintain security. Keeping his weapon oriented forward, the Lance Corporal quickly shuffled closer towards the T-intersection that loomed ahead before pressing himself against the left wall.

  He knew hugging a wall was an invitation for a ricochet, but in this cramped space, there was no other choice. Finch kept his rifle raised, its IR illuminator bathing the corridor in a ghostly light only his optics could see. A muffled scrape of gear signaled that Reyes was in position on the opposite wall as his sergeant’s illuminator sliced across the tunnel, intersecting Finch's beam and revealing the textures of the tunnel from a new angle.

  They owned the approach.

  Newman and Pham stacked up behind them, forming a quick but effective strongpoint. Everything now ran on muscle memory, with conscious thought slowing them down. They understood their roles: to hold security while the operators handled their tasks. The last thing any of them wanted was to return to clearing rooms after the chaos they'd just survived.

  The strange guttural breathing was definitely stronger, however. What had been a distant, echoing sound back at the breach was now a wet, labored rasp that seemed to seep from the darkness around the bend. Each rumbling exhale was longer than the last, as if whatever was making it was slowly drowning in its own fluids.

  While the sound made Finch’s hairs stand on end, the walls caused his stomach to drop into his boots.

  The dark smears weren't just thicker here—they were everywhere. Splashing across the stone in wild, chaotic patterns that climbed up the walls in defiance of gravity. It looked like someone had taken a paintbrush dipped in blood and gone completely insane with it. But more than the quantity, the unmistakable signs of struggle were evident.

  Deep gouges scraped into the stone, fingernail scratches that had torn through the blood smears, revealed the bare rock beneath. Handprints—human handprints—pressed into the walls at shoulder height, then chest height, then lower, as if someone had been clawing desperately for grip while being dragged along. The prints were smeared, fingers splayed wide in panic, some showing the distinct ridges of fingerprints in the still-wet residue.

  At the corner itself, the evidence turned truly nightmarish. Both hands had gripped the edge of the stone wall, with prints so deep and desperate that Finch could see where fingernails had actually broken off and embedded in the rock. Long scratches stretched around the corner, as if someone had been pulled so violently that their grip was torn away.

  Finch's heart pounded against his ribs like it was trying to punch its way out of his chest. This wasn't combat. This was some Jurassic Park shit, and it made every instinct in Finch’s body scream at him to turn around and run until his legs gave out.

  But there was something else rattling around in Finch’s mind besides fear. Something quieter and more dangerous. Curiosity. The same sick fascination that makes people slow down to look at car accidents, and that feeling made him want to peek around that corner, even though every logical part of his brain told him not to.

  The call of the void, whispering in his ear to just a quick look. Just to know there was nothing there.

  Before he even realized he was moving, Finch found himself edging closer to the intersection. His boots moved almost independently of his will, carrying him forward step by step. The IR splash from his rifle painted the corner in stark relief, highlighting every scratch and stain in phosphorescent detail.

  Reyes caught the movement in his peripheral vision and shifted with him, maintaining the tactical spacing without a word. The Sergeant's weapon tracked smoothly across his field of fire as they moved together like dancers who'd practiced this routine a thousand times. Which, in a way, they had.

  If Finch was honest with himself, this was the absolute last thing he wanted to do. Every lick of sense in his peanut brain was telling him to back off, to let someone else—anyone else—take point. But he was committed now. He was playing angle man to Reyes's corner boy, and once you started the dance, you finished it. That was how you stayed alive.

  The breathing got louder as they approached. Wet. Labored. Wrong.

  At the point of no return, muscle memory kicked in. Finch thumbed the switch for his white light and ran the rabbit—crossing the threshold quickly and aggressively with his weapon aimed at any potential threat while Reyes pied the corner.

  The tactical light burst to life like a miniature sun, flooding the corridor with harsh white brightness that would blind anyone staring directly at it and leave them momentarily disoriented. Behind him, he heard the quick shuffle of boots as Pham and Newman immediately moved to cover Reyes's old position, maintaining security while the two of them worked. Except Finch was hyperventilating.

  Once Finch was positioned on the far side of the intersection, his rifle aimed down the new corridor to establish intersecting fields of fire with Reyes. Standard procedure. Textbook.

  Except Finch was hyperventilating.

  Because something had moved down when he crossed. In that split second when his white light cut through the darkness, he'd seen... something absolutely massive and low to the ground. And it almost looked like it dragged something away in its escape with a wet, sliding sound that made his skin crawl.

  Or dragging someone.

  Finch could have sworn he'd seen it freeze mid-motion like a deer in headlights for just a brief moment, the instant his light hit it... But this hadn't been a deer.

  Nervously smacking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, Finch couldn’t help but cringe at the loud sound in his own ears despite the fact that he made it. His breathing came in short, sharp gasps, and his vision swam, making it hard to focus.

  "R… R… Reyes," he whispered, his voice barely audible even to himself. "Did you... Did you see that shit, or am I losing my fucking mind?"

  For a long moment, The Fireteam Leader didn't respond. The Sergeant just knelt there in position, his weapon trained around the corner and his lips pursed tightly. Finch could hear him swallowing hard, gulping like he was trying to keep something down.

  Finally, Reyes clicked his push-to-talk and keyed his radio. His voice, when it came, was tight with barely controlled tension.

  "This is... " He paused, shaking his head. In all the chaos of integration and task organization, none of them had established proper call signs for this makeshift unit. "Fuck it. Will, there's something down here."

  Behind them, the area where the SEALs were working had fallen into an almost supernatural quiet. The operators moved like ghosts through the artificial stone corridors, their movements economical and precise. There was no talking, no unnecessary noise—just the soft whisper of gear against fabric and the barely audible shuffle of boots on stone.

  Finch could catch glimpses of their systematic approach when he glanced in their direction. They worked from the last door down to the first, carefully clearing every inch of each room they came across. Each SEAL moved with intent, flowing around corners and through doorways like water finding the path of least resistance. When a room was declared secure, one of them would crack a green chemlight and toss it inside—a glowing beacon marking cleared and secure space before they moved on to the next target.

  They maintained maximum bodies and firepower at all times, ready to collapse on any point of contact in seconds. It was beautiful in its efficiency, terrifying in its implications.

  Will realized his role as controller was no longer necessary during the systematic clearing operation. He tapped his second in command on the shoulder in a quick gesture, smoothly transferring control. Without hesitation, the operator took over the coordination while Will and another SEAL separated from the stack and joined the Ensign, ensuring nobody went anywhere alone.

  They moved toward Finch and Reyes with a quick jog, weapons held at high ready but still positioned to snap to their shoulders and engage at a moment's notice. Once they reached Reyes’s, they tapped the Sergeant's shoulder as a universal signal for relief.

  Reyes immediately moved away from his position, swapping places with the operator in a smooth transition that left no gap in coverage. The SEAL settled into position silently, his weapon aimed down the same corridor Reyes had been watching, flooding it with his IR light.

  Taking a knee next to Reyes, Will’s eyes took in the carnage along the walls—the handprints, the scratches, the evidence of what looked like a damn Brown Bear horribly mauling someone.

  "What did you see?" Will’s voice came out barely above a whisper.

  Reyes's voice grew hoarse as he opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out as his tongue darted out to wet his lips. It was a nervous tic he thought he had gotten rid of. It signaled that Reyes had lost all sense of cool and was struggling to find some semblance of control again.

  The words ‘I don't know’ threatened to spill out, but he caught himself before they could escape. That wasn't an acceptable answer. Not here. Not now.

  "I... I uh... fuck..." Reyes started, then stopped himself.

  His jaw worked silently for a moment as he collected his thoughts, forcing Reyes’s mind to process what his eyes had seen. "Something big, man. Something... something dragging what looked like someone's lower torso when Finch hit it with his light."

  Will stood there for a long moment, processing the information. Every instinct in his body wanted to dismiss this as bullshit—combat stress, first-time jitters, the kind of fever dream that happens when Marines get their first taste of real violence. But he'd been on this godforsaken planet for over half a year before the offensive started. He'd seen things that defied explanation, witnessed magic turn reality inside out.

  His eyes drifted back toward the squad of SEALs his Lieutenant had put him in charge of. He was just an Ensign, barely senior enough to lead his own men, and he could feel the weight of an entire company of warfighters settling on his shoulders like a lead blanket. These SEALs and more so, these Marines were looking to him for answers, for leadership, for some indication that everything was going to be okay.

  But they found themselves in an absolutely fucked situation.

  Seeing the terror in Reyes's eyes and how Finch was still hyperventilating against the wall, Will felt that familiar knot of uncertainty twisting in his stomach. Part of him wanted to just bail—call it off, fall back, and let someone else deal with whatever nightmarish monster was lurking in the darkness ahead.

  But he couldn't. Not with his men counting on him. Not with the sector unclear and other vectors of the assault progressing.

  Will keyed his radio, his voice steady despite the chaos in his mind.

  "Jack 4-1, this is 4-2. We need more bodies down here. Stat.”