CHAPTER 50: THE LINE WE CROSSED

The heat was unbearable.

Even at 7:42 a.m., the asphalt around the airbase shimmered with rising waves of distortion, and the sky was already stained with smoke. Wildfires had crept to the edge of City H’s forest line, burning unchecked for four days now. Entire neighborhoods were being evacuated to the south. Roadblocks. Military zones. Water bans.

And it wasn’t even the East Coast being hit. The wildfires were in every province and territory, with over 90% of them classified as ’out of control’. The military, firefighters, and volunteers were fighting a losing battle, and the heat, combined with a lack of rain, wasn’t helping.

Zubair stood at attention in the endless queue outside Hangar 7, his black fatigues absorbing every ounce of sun like they’d been stitched from fire itself. A bead of sweat ran down the back of his neck, tucked neatly beneath the collar.

But he didn’t move.

No one did.

All around him, the armed forces of Country N gathered like cattle—lined up in rows, filed in by rank and company. Navy, Air Force, Tactical Response, Special Operations, and the Army. And among them, his team. Lachlan, Noah, and Alexei stood nearby, silent, each locked in their own thoughts.

Elias was up at the front, supervising what was going on, and Zubair didn’t know how he felt about that. They were supposed to be a team, a tightly knit formation of four different countries, all working under a single banner.

And yet, Elias felt like he was getting further and further away from the objective... the reason they were all there in the first place.

Ahead of them, the line shifted forward.

And just inside the open hangar, guards stood with rifles. One every few meters. No one said what they were there for. They didn’t need to.

Zubair’s gaze shifted toward the sound.

Shouting. Not far ahead—a man, maybe early twenties, was pulling against the grip of two soldiers.

"I didn’t agree to this! You can’t just—"

His voice cut off like a snapped wire.

The man was dragged through a side door. Metal slammed shut behind him.

No one spoke.

Zubair didn’t blink.

The hangar was a shadowed cavern, lit by industrial fluorescents and lined with rows of makeshift stations—folding tables, plastic containers, syringes stacked like bullets. At the far end, a red banner with the military’s seal: National Wellness Initiative—Mandatory Immunization Program.

"Efficient," Noah muttered behind him. "Like we’re getting chipped for shipping."

Zubair didn’t answer. His pulse was steady, his hands still at his sides. But he hadn’t unclenched his fists in twenty-three minutes.

They stepped forward again. Closer to the front.

The stench of alcohol wipes and bleach filled his nostrils now, masking the sweat. Some soldiers still looked bored. Others, like Zubair, said nothing. Watched. Measured. Braced.

He had received orders from his handler only a week ago.

Do not draw attention. Observe. Comply.

He would comply.

Because he had to.

Not just because refusal meant being dishonorably discharged and deported. But because this was the mission. Embedded for five years in Country N. Earned trust. Reached clearance. Proved himself invaluable. He was close—so close—to exposing what they were really doing with Hydra’s research.

The vaccine was a threat. He knew that.

But walking away wasn’t an option. Not for him.

The medic in front motioned. "Next."

Zubair stepped forward.

He sat without hesitation, boots planted, arms loose across his thighs. The chair was cold. Steel. The kind that folded under pressure but never broke.

The medic barely looked at him. Just tapped a small vial, drew the clear liquid into the syringe, and lifted Zubair’s sleeve.

"This might sting," she said in a tired voice.

He didn’t respond.

The needle entered the flesh of his shoulder in one smooth push.

He felt the warmth spread beneath the skin. Cold, then hot. Like lightning made of ice. The medic withdrew, placed a cotton ball, taped it down, and gestured him off.

"That’s it."

But Zubair didn’t stand immediately.

Something inside him paused.

Everything had shifted—subtly, almost imperceptibly. The air felt wrong. His pulse had changed.

His body didn’t react violently. He didn’t sweat or shake or collapse like some of the men had before they were dragged away.

But something had changed inside of him.

And every inch of him knew it.

He stood slowly. Walked the designated exit path. Didn’t look back.

The rest of his team would follow.

Outside, the sun had climbed higher. More heat. More ash drifting on the wind. The world was burning, and no one seemed to care as long as the mandates were followed, the lines respected, the quotas filled.

He made it to the end of the hangar and waited for the rest of his team. Lachlan came out next, his face unreadable. Noah followed, rubbing his shoulder with a frown. Alexei was last, smirking like he’d just survived a practical joke, but Zubair could see the tightness in his neck, the fake ease of his swagger.

They gathered in the shade beside a supply truck.

No one said anything for a long time.

Finally, Elias left the hangar and walked toward them. "For what it’s worth," he said, his voice almost apologetic, "The injection wasn’t nanotech. No metallic trace. Likely not tracking—yet."

Lachlan arched a brow. "That supposed to make me feel better?"

"It means what they told us is true," Elias said, his eyes passionate as he spoke about the confidential mission he had been on for the past few months. "It’s just a reformulated immunization. Synthetic antibody development. A variant off what Layla gave us last year."

Lachlan scoffed. "And the soldier dragged off like a dog?"

"Probably had issues. Mental health. Or priors."

"Right." Lachlan folded his arms. "You keep telling yourself that."

Zubair leaned against the truck silently.

He could still feel it. Not the pain—there was none. Not even the burn.

But a stillness inside. Like a wire had been tripped. Like something was waiting.

"You believe them?" he asked, quietly.

Elias shrugged. "Science doesn’t care what I believe. It only tells me what’s measurable."

"And if it starts to fail?" Lachlan asked. "If the side effects start kicking in?"

"Then we’ll adapt," Elias replied. "We always do."

Zubair watched them argue, their voices low but tense. He remembered long nights under red moonlight in Country I. Missions that required silence and slaughter. Training camps where the rules shifted daily. Regimes that played god with men’s blood.

He knew what it meant to obey.

He also knew what it meant to bleed for the wrong people.

A warning echoed in his skull—something he hadn’t heard since he was twelve, back in the desert barracks where his name was first erased and replaced with numbers:

"Obedience is survival. But blind obedience is death."

He turned to Lachlan.

"I trust your source," Zubair said. "More than I trust this country."

Lachlan’s eyes met his.

They didn’t shake hands. They didn’t smile.

But something settled between them like a pact.

They’d both taken the shot.

But that didn’t mean they wouldn’t be ready for the fallout.

Because this wasn’t over.

This was only the beginning. And all five men knew that.