"Ashes of Crestfall: The Rise of Aaron San Agustin"

Dust swirled across the burning yard as the last echoes of the helicopter faded into the desert sky. Aaron San Agustin lay on his side, his rifle out of reach, blood pooling beneath him in the ochre sand. The pain radiated with each ragged breath, cold sweat mixing with grit on his skin.

His vision blurred, drifting in and out. Footsteps crunched nearby. The figure he saw earlier—tall, armored in matte black with no insignia—approached silently. He raised a suppressed pistol, aiming at Aaron's temple. In that moment, death seemed inevitable.

But before the trigger could be pulled, a single sharp crack split the silence. The figure jerked backward, a red mist blooming from his visor. He collapsed without a sound.

Shadowed figures emerged from the smoke. Four operators clad in adaptive camouflage swept forward with lethal precision, weapons raised, eyes scanning every angle. Their movements were silent, their presence cold and disciplined.

"Target secured. Area hot. Clear for medevac," a low voice said through comms.

They were Delta Assault Team—sent as backup by the VSFU command after Aaron's biometrics triggered critical vitals on their satellite feed. Without pause, two men knelt beside him, ripping open his tactical vest to expose the entry wound. One injected coagulant foam into the wound while the other checked pulse and airway.

"Phantom Wolf is alive," the medic confirmed. "Weak pulse. We need exfil now."

"Copy," the team leader replied. "Raptor Three, inbound for hot pickup. Secure perimeter."

The team moved like reapers across the burning yard. Silenced gunshots cracked in quick rhythm as they cleared the area. Mercenaries scrambled from storage units and makeshift bunkers, but Delta operators cut them down with ruthless precision.

Two men breached a reinforced steel door where five mercenaries regrouped to plan retaliation. A flashbang rolled in, detonating with a deafening bang. As vision returned, the mercenaries saw only muzzle flashes before darkness claimed them.

Outside, a heavy machine gun roared from a watchtower, forcing two operators to roll behind armored crates. The team leader signaled with two fingers, pointing to the tower. A designated marksman stepped forward, braced his suppressed SR-25 against his knee, and fired once. The gunner fell forward, his lifeless body tumbling down the ladder.

Within minutes, the compound fell silent except for crackling flames and the low groans of the dying. Raptor Three, a modified Black Hawk, swooped in low and hovered above the burning yard. A winch cable descended.

"Get him up!" the medic ordered. They secured Aaron in a full-body harness, IV drip already inserted, plasma bag hanging beside his torso. His eyelids fluttered, but his gaze remained vacant, unfocused on the medics' faces.

"Stay with us, Phantom," the team leader growled into his ear as they hoisted him up into the chopper.

Inside, the medic pressed gauze to Aaron's wound while strapping an oxygen mask over his mouth. "Pulse dropping. Begin transfusion protocol."

The operator nodded. "Command, be advised—Phantom Wolf is critical. ETA base hospital, 22 minutes. Request surgical team on standby."

Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, the helicopter carrying Selena Fonte touched down at a secured airfield near Velmont. The rotors slowed, and the ramp lowered to reveal a line of armored SUVs waiting under blazing floodlights.

Selena sat slumped against the seat, tears streaking her dust-covered cheeks. Her mind replayed the scene over and over: the masked soldier standing between her and death, his eyes—so achingly familiar—locking with hers as blood poured from his side.

"Miss Fonte?" Rivera said softly, touching her shoulder. "We need to get you checked out."

"Who… who was he?" Selena whispered, voice trembling. "Please… tell me who saved me…"

Rivera hesitated. Her hardened eyes softened with sympathy. "I… can't tell you that."

Selena grabbed her arm, desperation igniting a ferocity in her cracked voice. "Please… I need to know… I know him… I know those eyes. Why won't anyone tell me?!"

Rivera pulled her into a gentle embrace. "Because some names… aren't meant to be spoken out loud. Not yet."

Selena sobbed against Rivera's armored vest. Her tears soaked the fabric as the engines rumbled and the rotors finally fell silent. In her chest, her heart ached with something she didn't understand—grief for a man whose name she did not even know, yet whose presence had felt like home.

Back in the Desert Skies

Inside the Black Hawk, Aaron's pulse weakened further. The medic checked vitals, eyes hard. "BP falling. Start adrenaline push. Prep defib."

Aaron's mind drifted in the darkness. Vague flickers danced through his thoughts: muddy fields under golden sun, his mother's gentle humming, Selena's smile under a university tree. He felt warm, floating between life and oblivion.

In a distant corner of his mind, a whisper echoed:

"Not yet… there is still work to do…"

The medic shocked him once. His body jerked under the harness straps. A low groan escaped his lips.

"Pulse rising! He's fighting."

The team leader pressed his headset closer. "Command, he's stabilizing. Tell the hospital to prepare for direct surgery upon arrival."

The chopper roared eastward toward Velmont's skyline, slicing the approaching dawn. Below them, the burning compound smoldered, a graveyard of mercenaries and secrets that would soon be buried under official silence.