You stand. Dust falls like snow on broken concrete. The “Round Complete” chime echoes off empty storefronts. No cheering. No teammates left to high-five.

“,” you lie. Your last mag has seven rounds. Your pistol has two. The claymore at the alley entrance is your only friend.

“,” you mutter to the ghosts. They’ll need a little bit more than the twentieth.

You don’t shoot.

“Ammo?” Diaz grunts, not looking at you.

“” — the voice in your head says it like a taunt, a whisper over the dead comms. They’ll break before you do.