After a night of drinking with friends, Andrew woke up in his apartment. Lying next to him was Tanya, her form draped in a bedsheet from neck down. Their relationship wasn't official—just benefits, no strings attached.
Andrew rose and wrapped a towel around his waist. He entered the bathroom and stared at his reflection. His stubble had grown in. With a sigh, he grabbed a razor and shaving cream. The scent of mint filled the air as he shaved, its cool sharpness waking him fully.
When he returned to the bedroom, Tanya was already awake, cigarette in hand. A towel was wrapped around her chest down to mid-thigh. Her pale skin stood out against the dim light—arms, shoulders, and legs bare.
"Morning. Want some coffee?" Andrew asked.
"Sure," she replied casually.
Andrew made his way to the kitchen while Tanya picked up the remote and flipped through TV channels. Most were junk.
Just as she was about to turn it off, a news broadcast caught her eye. A familiar, dangerous face filled the screen—Enrique Gomez. His group had claimed responsibility for the convoy ambush.
A recorded clip played:
"The attacks on the corrupt government's assets were carried out by us, the Cornalian Freedom Movement. We fight for a united and free country, free from the colonists and their vultures. To all Cornalians who believe in freedom, rise up. I, Enrique Gomez, promise you deliverance."
He wore sunglasses and had a long scar on his cheek. He spoke fluent Anglic with practiced charisma.
Andrew, overhearing the statement, returned with two cups of coffee. He raised a brow at Tanya.
"Coffee's ready."
She smiled and met him halfway. "I'm still not done with you yet."
The two ignored the television. The coffee sat cooling on the table.
---
Camp Citu, Cornalian Region
0900 Hours, Four Hours Later
Mikhail and Peter had already arrived at the camp after receiving an urgent summons. They entered the briefing room and glanced around. Something big was happening.
Peter looked at his watch. "They're late."
"Andrew and Tanya?" Mikhail asked, smirking. "We both know why."
He walked to the window. Sure enough, Andrew's bike pulled up. Tanya rode behind him, her hair tied in a neat bun—a rare sight.
The two entered the room. Andrew offered a tired smile.
"How has it been?" Peter and Mikhail greeted him in unison.
Andrew didn't answer, just gave a silent grin. Tanya walked past, back straight and stern.
"What's with the sudden roll call?" someone in the squad murmured.
Andrew leaned toward Mikhail and Peter. "Any idea?"
They both shrugged. "Something important, maybe."
Moments later, Colonel Gray entered, followed by an aide with folders.
"Gentlemen, apologies for disturbing your break," he began. "But we have an important development."
The folders were passed around. The screen powered on. A topographic map of the Catarman region flashed to life.
"Red markers indicate known rebel encampments. The yellow one? That's our main target—Enrique Gomez."
The room buzzed with whispers until Gray raised his voice. "Save your chatter. I'm not finished."
"We Black Hounds will participate in Operation Dawnbreak alongside our partners from the Cornalian Defense Forces. Our job is elimination and retrieval. A team of elite Scouts will support us."
He paused, eyeing the room.
"This won't be easy. The Oceanic Union has advisors monitoring the op. Any failure will have consequences. I trust you all know what's at stake."
Hands shot up. Questions followed.
"What are the stakes?" someone asked.
Gray answered, "The mission is high-risk. Any mistakes from us or our partners could spark chaos. But I believe in every one of you. It's time to deal with Enrique Gomez once and for all."
---
After the briefing, Operation Dawnbreak was set to commence in three days. Andrew, Peter, Tanya, Mikhail, and the rest of the team were scheduled to deploy at 2000 hours.
For security reasons, they were restricted to the base. Their days were spent drilling roles and refining skills. Inside the target range, Andrew practiced with the latest Valhalla-issued rifle.
Carrying the Maxim M-22 with its 6.55mm x 45mm rounds, Andrew took aim. The Cornalian Defense Forces still used the older M-19 variant with a smaller cartridge. Andrew was curious how the new model performed.
He zeroed in at a 350-meter target and fired in short, clean bursts.
"Not bad," he muttered, feeling the sharper recoil. The shots hit dead center.
A beep blared overhead, signaling the timed drill. Targets were spaced across various distances—50 meters on the left to 500 meters on the far right.
As the second beep sounded, Andrew opened fire. One by one, he hit the targets with measured precision. He managed his ammo well, counting every shot.
Two minutes remained. He zeroed in on a 350-meter target. Another clean bullseye.
Next—425 meters. He squeezed the trigger.
Click.
"Out already?" He cursed under his breath and reloaded.
"One minute left. Dang it."
Focused, he fired again. This time the shot was a little off-center but still hit. No time to admire.
He lined up on the final target at 500 meters. A clean shot. But just as the round hit, the buzzer sounded.
He raised his arms to signal the end of the session. Peter, passing by, noticed the grim look on Andrew's face.
"C'mon, sometimes we miss. Don't beat yourself up," Peter teased.
Andrew smirked, stepping away from the range. "Your turn, huh?"
"Yeah... and I don't disappoint," Peter grinned.
"Really? Show us your best then."
Peter's face turned serious. "You know... I've got a bad feeling about this mission."
"What do you mean?" Andrew asked.
"Something doesn't feel right. That's all," Peter said quietly.
Andrew didn't answer. He simply nodded, watching his friend approach the line.