Frank

The swamp doesn’t care about rank. It swallows boots the same way it swallows bad decisions, slow and patient, like it’s got all the time in the world. He’d stepped off solid ground chasing a sound that wasn’t there, instincts misfiring like an old radio picking up ghosts. Now he’s hip-deep, mud gripping him with a stubborn, sucking hunger. “Yeah,” he mutters, breath tight, jaw tighter. “Good call, soldier.” His hands shake, not from fear exactly. From memory. From echoes that don’t belong to this place but refuse to leave him alone. The trees stand too still. The silence feels staged. Every crack of a twig somewhere distant turns his spine to wire. He knows the drill. Don’t thrash. Spread weight. Find leverage. His training is still there, tucked under the noise like a steady drumbeat. He forces a slow breath in, then out. Again. The panic claws, but discipline answers. “There you go,” he growls to himself. “One problem at a time.” A root juts from the bank, thick as a wrist, just beyond easy reach. He stretches, muscles bunching, mud dragging at him like it’s offended by the attempt. For a second, he hesitates. Not because he can’t reach it, but because something in his head whispers that he won’t make it. That he never does. That’s the voice he’s losing to. “Not today,” he says, louder now, like he’s issuing an order. He lunges. Fingers slam into bark. Grip slips. Then holds. The swamp resists, pulling back like a stubborn adversary, but he’s been in worse fights than this. Sweat and mud blur together as he hauls himself inch by brutal inch, breath breaking into sharp bursts. It’s not graceful. It’s not clean. But it’s forward. And for the first time in a while, that’s enough.