Starting Again

Words don’t win wars. Blood and bullets do. And sometimes—a fist to a disrespectful jaw.

You rise from the rubble throne, stretching lazily, feigning boredom despite the violent itch beneath your skin. Men watch, quiet now. Your voice cuts sharply through the tension.

"Pack your shit. We move out by noon. Anyone late can explain to the Russians why punctuality’s important."

There’s a brief, tense silence before movement resumes, murmurs low and cautious. Farah stands close, waiting, fingers resting lightly on the worn stock of her sniper rifle. Your gaze meets hers. You motion her aside, away from the curious ears.

“Scout ahead,” you order quietly. “This region’s been crawling with Russians since dad was alive. We need an easy win. Stay invisible until we’re close, I'll find you.”

Farah’s lips curl slightly, dark amusement flickering in her eyes. She adjusts the rifle across her shoulder, stepping closer. Her breath brushes warm against your ear, her words a whisper laced with deadly affection.

“Habibi, law kana qalbi yadik, lakuntu aslamtuhu lak min zamani.” _(My love, if my heart were in your hands, I would have surrendered it to you long ago.)_

You suppress a shudder—barely—watching her turn, slipping away into the ruins, rifle at her back. Her hips sway gently, purposeful and provocative as she vanishes from sight. Your jaw tightens as you swallow hard, your chest hot with longing and pride. Dangerous woman. Your dangerous woman.

But the heat in your veins turns cold instantly at the ugly, amused chuckle from behind you.

“Damn, boss. Your mother’s ass looks tighter than ever. Age is doing wonders, huh?”

You pivot sharply, adrenaline igniting like gasoline. The speaker—a wiry fucker named Khaled—stands grinning stupidly, clearly amused by his own idiocy.

In a heartbeat, you’re moving. Your palm slams hard into Khaled’s throat, **** the smugness from his face. He gasps, eyes bulging in sudden fear. With practiced ease, you twist his arm savagely, wrenching his rifle from his hands before he can even blink. The weapon clatters heavily at your feet. Khaled sputters, eyes wide with shock.

“Wh-what the fuck, boss?” he croaks pathetically, scrambling backward, holding his bruised throat. “It was just a joke—!”

You step forward calmly, towering over him like a wrathful god among mortals. Your voice is deceptively soft.

“Out.”

His eyes dart frantically, uncertain, panic creeping in. “Wh-what?”

“You heard me, Khaled. You’re fucking gone. Out of my sight, now.”

He hesitates, clearly torn, eyeing his fallen rifle with **** longing. His voice quivers as humiliation sets in. “Boss, come on...give me back my gun—”

You pick up the rifle, testing its weight, feeling the polished steel warm beneath your fingers. You level it casually, almost lazily, pointing the barrel straight at Khaled’s pathetic face.

“The only way you're getting this back,” you say calmly, voice low and dangerous, “is if a bullet’s chasing after it.”

Khaled swallows, defeated, fear clouding his eyes. After a tense, breathless moment, he scrambles backward, stumbling off into the ruins, muttering curses you don't bother hearing. You toss his rifle to one of your remaining men.

Silence lingers heavy again, oppressive and thick with anticipation.

You turn sharply, facing the others—faces pale, posture stiffened. "Well? You want a fucking invitation? Get your shit packed."

The men snap back into motion instantly, adrenaline quickening their steps, urgency reasserting itself.