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The kick lands square in your ribs.

You jolt awake, hand already reaching for the knife under your cot before your eyes are fully open. You’re half-drenched in sweat, heart pounding.

“John!” Yousef’s voice is sharp, panicked, but focused. “Wake the fuck up. We’ve got movement.”

You sit up, eyes clearing fast. “What kind?”

“One of the IEDs went off, southwest trail.”

You’re on your feet before he finishes.

“How far?”

“Scouts say six to eight hours, max. Trucks. Armoured."

You don’t speak. You just throw on your gear like it’s second skin. Boots, vest, belt. You slap a magazine into your rifle, chamber a round with a clean clack, and storm out of your tent.

By the time you hit the square, the entire village is stirring.

Word spreads fast.

You see civilians. Grandmothers, blacksmiths, teenagers with bruised faces, standing with clenched fists and steeled expressions.

“Non-combatants,” you shout, voice hoarse but clear, “to the rally shelters near the eastern ridge. You’ll be guarded, but far from the front.”

They don’t move.

A middle-aged man with a crutch steps forward, eyes sharp. “We’re done running.”

A woman with a bandaged arm echoes him. “You taught us how to fight, Commander. Now let us.”

A young boy, no older than eleven clutches a broken hunting rifle. He doesn’t speak. Just stares up at you.

You scan the crowd. “Then every hand has a task.”

They straighten.

“Elders, you will be spotters and supply runners. You know every alley in this place better than any map.”

They nod.

“Children, you’re ammo carriers, water runners, medics. Stay in the shadows, stay moving.”

A few of them smile. One of them salutes.

“Everyone else, man your posts. Set charges. Reinforce the chokepoints. Check weapons, check the new comms system."

The square erupts in motion.

You look to Yousef. “How long until they hit the perimeter?”

“Five and a half. Maybe less if they push.”

You nod once. “Then let’s make them bleed for every goddamn step.”

You scan the map laid across the overturned crate, the paper pinned at the corners with rusted nails and a brick. Roads, hills, goat paths, every wrinkle in Zahiriya’s skin. You jab your finger at a curve in the trail where the IED went off.

“They’ll slow down here. Expect resistance. Assume traps.”

Yousef nods beside you, eyes sharp, fingers twitching on the strap of his rifle. He’s nervous. But there’s something else under it, hunger.

You draw a rough perimeter around the ridge trail. “This is your playground. I want you harassing them all the way in. Don’t get heroic. Don’t get dead. Make them feel unwelcome. Every meter they take should cost them something.”

Yousef stiffens. “You’re putting me in charge?”

You look at him. The same scrappy kid you grew up with who once tripped over his own rifle during a drill. Now he’s got fire in his blood and dust in his lungs, and more importantly, loyalty in his spine.

“Yes,” you say. “I am.”

His mouth opens, then closes. He blinks. Then, without warning, he steps forward and pulls you into a hug. Tight. Solid. Sincere.

“Thank you, akhi,” he says against your shoulder.

You pat his back once, then push him away. “Don’t thank me until you’re back. And if you die out there...”

“I’m haunting you,” he grins.

You nod. “Good. I could use the company.”

He turns to his hand-picked squad, scrappy villagers with mixed gear, faces wrapped in scarves, hearts louder than their boots."

You stand for a moment, watching them disappear into the haze, the heat distorting their silhouettes into ghosts.

Then you turn and begin your walk through the village.

You pass by the children organizing munitions under the guidance of an elder who used to be a schoolteacher. You nod to him. He nods back, one eye glassy.

Samir’s posted on a rooftop, radio to his ear, scanning the hills. Hassan is rechecking wires near the mosque's courtyard, setting traps with the care of a man performing surgery.

You check every post. Every barricade. Every pair of hands busy stacking sandbags or melting down scrap into shrapnel.

The village hums with purpose.