The Silent Strain

No surrender

Jonas adjusted his stance, bracing himself as more figures poured through the shattered doorway. The rifle was a part of him now, every shot deliberate, every movement honed by years of surviving in a world that had no room for mercy. 

The air was thick with smoke and the copper tang of blood, but Jonas didn’t falter. Each pull of the trigger was a reminder—he was still here. Still fighting. 

The first wave dropped quickly, their bodies piling near the door, but there were always more. They moved with precision, not the chaotic frenzy of scavengers. These people were trained. Organized. 

And relentless. 

Jonas’s rifle clicked empty. 

“Shit,” he muttered, his hands moving automatically to reload. 

Before he could, a figure lunged at him, a blade glinting in the dim light. Jonas stepped back, swinging the rifle like a club. The man grunted as the butt of the gun connected with his jaw, dropping to the floor in a heap. 

Jonas grabbed the fallen man’s knife, flipping it in his hand. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. 

He glanced toward the hatch Ava and Lila had escaped through, relief washing over him for a fleeting moment. They were gone, out of this hellhole. 

That was enough. 

The next attacker came fast, too fast. Jonas barely had time to parry the blade aimed at his throat. The two of them grappled, the sounds of grunts and scraping boots filling the small space. Jonas slammed his forehead into the man’s face, feeling the crunch of bone. 

The attacker staggered, but Jonas didn’t wait. He drove the knife into the man’s side, twisting hard. 

Another shadow loomed behind him. Jonas spun, slashing out with the blade, but the handle was knocked from his grip. A blow landed on his ribs, the impact stealing his breath. 

He stumbled, catching himself on the edge of the table. His vision blurred for a moment, but he forced it to clear. There was no time for weakness. 

A woman stepped forward, her weapon—a baton crackling with electricity—held steady. She wasn’t like the others. Her stance was confident, her eyes cold. 

“You’ve put up quite a fight,” she said, her voice almost amused. “But it’s over.” 

Jonas wiped blood from his mouth, his smirk defiant. “You’re gonna have to work for it.” 

The woman raised the baton, but Jonas lunged before she could strike, slamming into her with every ounce of strength he had left. They crashed to the ground, her weapon skittering across the floor. 

She fought back, her blows landing hard and precise, but Jonas didn’t let up. He didn’t care about the pain. Pain meant he was still alive. 

A sharp crack in his temple sent him reeling, his body slumping against the wall. Blood dripped from his head, warm and sticky, as his vision darkened at the edges. 

Still, he pushed himself up, his breaths ragged. He wouldn’t die on his knees. 

The woman approached with her baton back in her hand. “Stubborn,” she said, almost admiringly. 

Jonas spat blood; his grin was lopsided. “You have no idea.” 

The baton came down, and everything went black.