The pre-dawn chill bit through Lieutenant Jason "Grim" Cooper's fatigues as he crouched behind a crumbling mud-brick wall, scanning the target compound through the green haze of his night-vision goggles. The desert winds whispered across broken concrete and rubble, stirring faint clouds of dust. Everything felt too quiet—too calculated—like the calm before a storm.
Behind him, Petty Officer First Class Derek "Hawk" Hawkins adjusted his rifle, sweeping the southern perimeter with practiced precision. His voice crackled softly in Jason's earpiece. "Minimal movement. You sure this place is hot? Feels like we're chasing ghosts again."
Jason frowned, double-checking his map overlay. "Intel says it's an arms cache. Drone footage showed crates moving in here last week." He paused, glancing at their third teammate, Chief Petty Officer Marcus "Saint" Miller, who was crouched near a collapsed metal gate, prepping a small block of C4 with meticulous care.
"Could be abandoned," Marcus muttered without looking up, his tone dry but alert. "Or maybe they're inside sipping chai and waiting to ambush us."
Jason's gut churned with unease. Something about this mission felt off—like walking into a trap without knowing where the tripwire was hidden. He gave a curt nod to Marcus. "Breaching charge ready?"
"Set," Marcus replied, pressing the detonator into place. He glanced at Jason with a faint smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Fire in the hole."
The muffled pop of the explosion sent a shiver through the night air as the lock on the compound door blew apart. Jason swung around the corner, rifle up, moving low and fast into the corridor beyond. Hawk followed close behind, covering their rear with smooth efficiency born of years in combat zones.
Inside, the compound was eerily silent. The air smelled of oil and stale sweat; walls pockmarked by past firefights bore witness to its history as a battleground. Stacks of grimy crates lined one side of the narrow hallway—ammo belts spilling out like entrails from broken boxes.
Marcus knelt beside a crate, inspecting its contents with gloved hands. "Rusty AK mags and old RPG rounds," he muttered under his breath. "Not exactly cutting-edge."
Jason gestured for Hawk to advance toward a larger interior chamber visible ahead. Hawk moved in tandem, his rifle sweeping left and right as they entered what looked like a workshop: wires snaked across the floor from a sputtering generator toward an upright slab of stone at its center.
Jason froze at the sight of the slab—a monolith etched with swirling glyphs that seemed to pulse faintly under his night-vision goggles. His stomach tightened as he pointed toward it cautiously. "Saint," he said quietly, motioning for Marcus to join him. "You seeing this?"
Marcus approached carefully, his brows furrowing as he examined the generator cables feeding into the stone. "Not standard Taliban décor," he said dryly.
Hawk stepped closer, shining his flashlight on the faint carvings along its surface. "Boss… what are these symbols? They don't look like anything I've seen before."
A subtle tingle of dread slipped through Jason. He tapped his radio mic to signal their handler at base camp—only to receive static in response. A faint hum seemed to emanate from the slab, like distant feedback.
"Something's wrong," Jason muttered under his breath. He gestured for Marcus to step back from the monolith while Hawk scanned for potential threats beyond the chamber walls.
"Could be black-market tech," Marcus speculated nervously, inspecting nearby cylinders adorned with similar glyphs. He lifted one carefully with gloved hands and frowned deeply. "Feels warm… like it's alive."
Before Jason could respond, a low tremor shook the ground beneath their boots—subtle at first but steadily growing stronger. The generator coughed sparks as its cables writhed like living snakes.
"Movement!" Hawk barked, spinning toward the corridor they'd entered moments ago.
Jason raised his rifle instinctively as shadows flickered across the walls—unnatural shapes twisting in ways that defied logic or physics.
"Fall back!" Jason ordered, adrenaline surging through his veins as debris rained down from above.
Marcus grabbed his pack and bolted toward an alternate exit—a narrow passage near the chamber's rear—but part of the ceiling collapsed mid-run, blocking their path with jagged beams and choking dust.
The slab flared violently with violet light as cracks veined its surface like spiderwebs splitting open under pressure. A vortex began to form above it—swirling shadows pulling everything not bolted down into its center...
"Grim!" Hawk shouted over the deafening roar of wind and energy spiraling outward from the monolith.
Jason fought against an invisible force dragging him forward but lost his footing as gravity seemed to shift unnaturally around them. In one desperate motion, he lunged for Marcus's arm but was yanked away by an overwhelming pull.
The world dissolved into blinding white light—a crushing cold enveloping them as they were swallowed whole by darkness...
When Jason regained consciousness, pain lanced through his ribs where he'd slammed against hard stone flooring. Static danced along his limbs like electricity lingering after a storm.
He blinked rapidly to clear his vision; his night-vision goggles had been knocked askew during their fall. Adjusting them revealed flickering torchlight illuminating towering stone walls around him—walls that looked nothing like those of an Afghan compound.
"Hawk… Saint…" Jason croaked weakly, pushing himself onto one elbow.
Nearby, Hawk groaned softly while Marcus cursed under his breath—both struggling to sit upright amidst scattered debris from their gear packs. They each had precious few magazines left; Jason caught sight of Marcus automatically checking how many were still intact.
Jason's gaze drifted upward—and froze at what he saw: twin moons glowing faintly above charred timbers framing an open sky, unlike anything he'd ever known.
A chorus of distant shouts echoed through corridors beyond—a mix of human cries and guttural roars that sent chills down his spine.
"We're not in Helmand anymore," Marcus muttered grimly, clutching his rifle tight against his chest.
Jason forced himself upright despite aching muscles and surveyed the area: broken banners dragged through mud; charred wood splintered across stone floors; alien architecture steeped in smoke and firelight casting eerie shadows everywhere.
Then came another sound—closer this time—the unmistakable clash of steel on steel, accompanied by monstrous growls reverberating through nearby halls.
Hawk scrambled to his feet beside Jason, eyes wild, while Marcus double-checked his rifle's chamber with shaking hands.
"What now?" Hawk asked hoarsely, panic edging his voice.
Jason clenched his jaw, forcing composure. "We survive," he said. "Stay close—watch each other's backs."
He scanned the broken corridor leading deeper into this unknown fortress. They were a long way from any base, with no idea where—or when—they'd landed. But they were SEALs, and that meant they'd adapt or die trying.
"Move," Jason ordered, voice low and urgent. Together, the three men advanced into the darkness, the twin moons overhead casting an otherworldly glow on a battlefield that was no longer theirs—yet had already become their fight.