Your head pounded, a dull, insistent ache centered at the base of your skull. The rough texture of the road grit pressed into your palms as you pushed yourself up. The world tilted, then settled.

The street was silent. Eerily so. No morning chatter, no clatter of breakfast pots from open windows, no sound of children running to training grounds. Just the whisper of the wind through the leaves above the compound walls.

Memory returned not as a trickle, but a flood. The still, wrong night. His silhouette. The hollow look in his eyes. The confession, fragile as glass. The kiss that tasted of salt and goodbye. The sharp sting. His arms catching you.

From deeper within the compound, a sound finally cut the silence. A single, ragged scream. It was followed by another. Then a chorus of shouts, rising in panic.