Final Stand(End of Vol-1)

He wasn’t on the boat.

He wasn’t in the smoke.

He wasn’t anywhere the others could reach.

Because Alex had never made it out.

They didn’t know that when they sped across the waves. Not until Mira counted the kids. Not until Sofia checked for his breathing. Not until Leo stared back at the island, realization sinking in like a knife through the ribs.

“He stayed behind,” Leo said quietly.

Sofia looked at him, eyes hollow. “No. No, he was there. I held him—he was there.”

Leo didn’t answer.

Because they both knew.

Alex never stopped fighting.

Back on the island, minutes earlier...

He’d collapsed before he could reach the ramp. The world tilted sideways, pain blooming everywhere. His side was torn open, his leg soaked in blood, vision fractured into static and stars.

But he saw them.

Six kids.

Still trapped in the back of the old kitchen block. Cornered by the last five mercs, the worst of the worst. These weren’t thugs. These were specialists—cold, methodical, armored in black and faceless helmets.

They moved in silence.

Guns raised.

Children crying.

Alex crawled to his feet.

One bullet left in the pistol. That’s all.

He limped through the broken wall, leaning against the frame.

“HEY!” he shouted.

They turned.

“What the hell—”

BANG.

One merc fell. Shot through the visor. Dead before he hit the floor.

Four left.

Alex dropped the pistol.

Picked up a rusted pipe from the debris.

His knees buckled.

His breath came in shallow gasps.

He charged anyway.

The first merc slammed into him.

Alex ducked, drove the pipe into the man’s side. Armor cracked. The merc grunted—staggered back.

Another struck Alex in the back with a baton. Pain exploded through his spine.

He turned, swinging wide. Missed.

They circled him.

He was bleeding from his mouth now. His arms numb. His body broken.

But he stood.

Still.

One step forward.

A punch landed on his jaw—he spit blood and smiled.

Another hit to the ribs—he stayed upright.

He screamed, slammed the pipe down into a kneecap.

CRACK.

The merc screamed back—fell.

Alex dropped to one knee, vision going red.

Three more.

One raised a gun—Alex dove forward, tackled him.

Gun skittered away.

They rolled—punched—Alex bit the man’s shoulder, drew blood through the armor.

Then he was pulled off.

Thrown against the wall.

He slumped, couldn’t move.

Couldn’t breathe.

The leader stepped forward.

A knife now. Short. Serrated.

“You should’ve stayed down,” the merc said.

Alex didn’t speak.

He just looked past the man—to the kids behind him.

And smiled.

The explosion came from the hallway.

Jonah’s last trap.

Rigged in case they were followed.

BOOM.

The hallway collapsed. Debris rained down. Smoke filled the space.

The blast threw everyone back.

Alex couldn’t hear anymore.

Everything was muffled.

He saw a flash—blinding.
Then darkness.

Later…

The police found the kids alive.

Huddled in the back, shielded by a broken door.

They found the mercs. Two crushed. One burned. The others dead from blunt force trauma.

And they found him.

Alex.

Slumped in the corner, body torn apart, hand still clutching a blood-slick pipe.

Eyes open.

But empty.

A medic knelt beside him.

“No pulse.”

Another looked at the wall beside him—where someone had written in blood:

“We make it out. Or we make them pay.”

The rain came too late.

It soaked the burning island, hissed across the ruined buildings, and carried the black smoke out to sea. What it couldn’t wash away was the blood—or the silence left behind.

Alex lay beneath the collapsed balcony of the eastern tower. He’d been pulled down there by the blast, lungs crushed under the weight of stone and steel. He shouldn’t have been breathing.

But he was.

Barely.

Every breath was agony. His hands were cold. His leg—he couldn’t feel it. His left arm hung useless, bones cracked. The world was shrinking around him.

And still, he moved.

He had one thing left to do.

It had been Leo.

Before the last charge was set, before the final dash to the docks, Leo had slapped a spare magazine into Alex’s vest.

“Just in case,” he’d muttered. “You always run out at the worst times.”

Alex hadn’t checked it. Not then. Too much chaos.

Now, lying in the mud, ribs broken and skin torn open, he reached across his chest with numb fingers. Fumbled through the vest.

And there it was.

A spare pistol.
Loaded.

One round missing.

One bullet left.

He blinked.

Focused.

He could hear them—voices—not far. The last guards. The leaders of the entire operation. The men who never touched a weapon, only gave orders. The men who sold children like cattle, who started all of this.

They were still here.

Trying to destroy the evidence. Set the server room on fire. Clear the last files. Pack the money. Escape.

Alex pushed himself up, blood spilling down his chin. He dragged the pistol into his lap, chambered the round with shaking hands.

Then he crawled.

The corridor to the command bunker was cracked open from earlier shelling. Flames still licked at the walls. But inside—it was untouched. Untouched like the men inside.

Five of them.

Wearing clean shirts. Shouting into dead radios. Frantic. Desperate.

“We need the helicopter now!”

“Shut it! Wipe the drives—take the disks—burn everything!”

“No one can know what we did—no one!”

Alex pulled himself through the open door, boots scraping on the tile.
He used the wall to rise.

He stood, barely.

They turned.

And froze.

One of them actually laughed.

“You again? Are you kidding me?”

“Is he even alive?”

“He’s done. Look at him.”

Alex raised the pistol.

No words.

Not anymore.

Just breath.

He took aim at the one in the center. The tall one. The one who signed the transfer orders. The one who called the children “stock.”

BANG.

The bullet tore through his chest.

He collapsed. Dead before he hit the floor.

The others scrambled.

Alex didn’t follow.

The gun fell from his hand.
He swayed.

Then collapsed to his knees.

Then down, flat, against the blood-slick floor.

They found him an hour later.

The military arrived first.

Boats swarmed the island. Helicopters cut through the smoke. Floodlights blinded the rubble.

They found the survivors.
Dozens of children.
Some wounded.
Some scarred forever.

They found Leo, barely conscious, trying to keep Jonah awake.

They found Sofia curled up in a blanket, Mira cradled in her arms, whispering over and over: “He was right there. I had him. I had him.”

They found the servers, destroyed. The bodies of the operation’s leaders. The bunker doors blown apart.

And they found Alex.