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

Below the darkening skies of Northern Karkane, the burning Camp Red Vulture smoldered like a dying sun. Black smoke twisted into the desert wind as charred steel beams collapsed into glowing embers. Bodies lay scattered—mercenaries stripped of names and futures—while the fires consumed every trace of their ambitions.

But the silence that fell was not peace.

Within hours, whispers spread like wildfire through the underground channels of Africa's war economies. The destruction of Red Vulture destabilized delicate power balances across the continent's northern territories. In corporate towers overlooking London's glittering skyline, analysts of Golden Retriever Private Military Company analyzed satellite images with grave expressions.

One executive leaned back in his leather chair, steepling his fingers. "Camp Red Vulture has fallen. The Karkane corridor is unguarded. If we secure that territory, we can control resource and arms trafficking routes into Central Africa."

Another man adjusted his tie, eyes gleaming. "Blackwater's already moving to claim it. Their board meeting ended an hour ago. They're dispatching their Raven Division within seventy-two hours."

In distant boardrooms of Riyadh and Dubai, Gulf-based security conglomerates whispered of opportunity, while local warlords in Karkane gathered ragged militias under rusted AK rifles. Across the battered desert, tension coiled like a rattlesnake ready to strike, each group poised to spill rivers of blood for a single stretch of scorched earth.

Meanwhile, thousands of miles away in Velmont City, the VSU Special Forces Black Hawk roared across dawnlit skies, slicing through drifting cloud banks. Inside, Aaron lay on a stretcher, his tactical gear stripped away, leaving only blood-soaked bandages and gauze pressed tight against his wound.

The medic checked vitals, sweat streaking his brow despite the chill air blowing through the cabin. "BP stabilizing but critical. Prep second adrenaline push."

Aaron's eyelids fluttered. Weak electric pain coursed through his body as they administered another dose. Somewhere deep within his failing consciousness, he heard a voice—a memory laced with warmth:

"Stay strong, anak… promise me you'll come home safe…"

His mother's voice. The farm. The wind through golden rice stalks. He wanted to stay there, in that soft summer glow, away from darkness, away from killing. But a sudden jolt rocked the chopper as they banked sharply east toward Velmont General Hospital, yanking him back into pain.

At VELMONT Military Hospital. Floodlights illuminated the rooftop helipad where emergency surgical teams waited, gurneys lined in sterile precision. As the Black Hawk touched down, medics in blue trauma scrubs rushed forward.

"Patient incoming! Massive blood loss. Entry wound lower thorax, possible diaphragm tear, internal bleeding suspected," the flight medic shouted.

They slid Aaron onto a rolling stretcher, oxygen mask fogging with each ragged breath. His eyes flickered open just long enough to see a single star in the dawn sky before the pain swallowed him whole.

"Prep OR-1! Notify thoracic team, cardiac team on standby," the trauma surgeon ordered, running beside his gurney as they disappeared through automatic doors.

Downstairs, in the hospital's private lobby sealed off by armed guards, Selena Fonte sat slumped on a cushioned bench. Her clothes were still dusty from the desert, blood smeared across her torn blouse where Aaron had held her during extraction. Her hair fell in tangled waves over her pale face, her eyes red and hollow from sleeplessness.

She gripped Rivera's forearm with desperate strength. "Please… please let me see him. Just for a minute. I need to know who he is."

Rivera shook her head gently, though her own eyes glimmered with sorrow. "Miss Fonte… he's in surgery. Even if you saw him now, he wouldn't know you were there."

Tears spilled down Selena's cheeks. She pressed her forehead against Rivera's armored vest, sobbing so hard her shoulders shook. "I felt… I felt like I knew him… when he looked at me… it was like coming home… why can't anyone tell me?!"

Rivera placed a gloved hand on her head. "Because his name isn't his to give. It belongs to the country that forged him into what he is."

Selena shook her head. "No… that's not true. That name… belongs to me, too."

Hours later inside the Surgery room. The rhythmic beeping of heart monitors filled the sterile operating suite. Aaron lay under bright surgical lights, chest cavity open as surgeons worked with urgent precision. Clamps, sutures, suction—the room was silent except for the calm, decisive commands of the trauma surgeon.

"Bleeding identified. Clamp here. Vitals stabilizing. Prepare transfusion—three units O negative."

His pulse, once a faint flicker, rose steadily on the monitor. A nurse dabbed sweat from the surgeon's brow as he closed the final layer with quick, neat stitches.

"Wrap him up. We're done here. Let's get him to post-op recovery, stat."

Later at night. The sun dipped beyond Velmont's glass towers, leaving the city washed in violet dusk. Selena sat alone in the quiet lobby, arms wrapped around her knees, eyes staring blankly at the marble floor. She hadn't moved for hours.

Rivera approached and sat beside her. "He's out of surgery," she said softly. "They say… he'll live."

Selena's head snapped up, eyes wide with hope. "Can I see him now?"

Rivera hesitated. "He's in intensive care. He won't wake up tonight… maybe not tomorrow. But when he does… I promise you, I'll tell him you were here."

Selena clenched her fists. Her shoulders trembled with silent sobs. "Please… live…" she prayed silently. "Live… because I need to know who you are… I need to know why… why your eyes felt like home."

Outside the hospital, armored SUVs pulled away under flickering streetlights. Inside one vehicle, a figure in a dark suit scrolled silently through a satellite feed of Camp Red Vulture's smoldering remains.

"Deploy Raven Division immediately," the man ordered into his phone. "I want Karkane secured within seventy-two hours."

And so, as Aaron lay unconscious beneath white hospital sheets and Selena wept alone in the marble lobby, far across the world, new fires of war were being lit—ignited by a single soldier's mission, and by the name he refused to give.

Because for Aaron San Agustin, his life was never his own.

But for Selena Fonte… he might yet choose to give it.