The stealth chopper cuts through the freezing morning air, the rotors beating a steady, rhythmic thud against the alpine wind. Inside the cabin, the harsh, red glow of the emergency strips illuminates the grim reality of the extraction. The adrenaline that fueled the assault is rapidly receding, leaving behind a profound, cellular exhaustion that makes my bones feel like hollow glass.
I sit strapped into the acceleration couch, my heavy assault rifle resting across my lap. My hands are heavily bandaged, the nerve damage from the Mariana Trench frostbite flaring with a dull, throbbing agony in the extreme cold of the cabin. My ribs scream with every shallow breath, the heavy tape shifting against my bruised skin. But the physical pain is entirely eclipsed by the deep, creeping numbness of
