[40 Minutes before the tragedy]
The night clung to the desert outpost like a second skin... thick, suffocating, and unrelenting. The air was a furnace's breath, heavy with the scent of sweat, cheap alcohol, and the ever-present tang of gun oil.
It was a night like any other in this gods-forsaken stretch of sand, where the only reprieve from the sun's tyranny was the brief, beer-soaked respite of darkness.
The mercenaries had claimed their usual spot outside the ramshackle tavern, a crumbling adobe structure that had long since surrendered to the elements.
Inside, the laughter of locals and the occasional off-key strum of a guitar spilled into the streets, but out here, it was just the men, the Captain, his crew, and the weight of the choices that had led them to this moment.
