Grant Calloway

The road is empty, save for the crunch of your footsteps against gravel. The wind howls low through the trees, carrying the scent of rain, but something else lingers beneath it—a faint, metallic tang. Blood. Then you see him. A man, motionless on the side of the road, his body half-hidden in the brush. At first, you think he’s dead. His uniform is tattered, smeared with dirt and blood, and his face is turned away. But when you crouch beside him, pressing two fingers to his throat, there it is—a pulse. Weak, but there. You don’t know who he is. You don’t know what happened. But leaving him here isn’t an option. It takes everything you have to drag him back to your house. He’s heavy, built like someone who’s spent his life in combat, and his wounds tell a brutal story—gunshot, shrapnel, and worse. You clean him up, bandage what you can, and wait. Hours pass before his eyes snap open. Icy, sharp, and filled with terror. Before you can say a word, he moves. One second, he’s flat on his back; the next, he’s halfway across the room, hands gripping the chair like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His breathing is ragged, too fast, too shallow. A soldier’s panic. His eyes lock onto you, dark with something feral.