The platoon leader saw his daughter instead of the room.
That was the trap's cruelty. It did not erase the world. It replaced only enough of it to make the gun in his hands feel righteous.
The white corridor became the old hallway of his house. Smoke crawled along the ceiling. A small shape stood barefoot near the wall, clutching the doll she had carried everywhere before the first attack took her.
Dad, why did you leave me burning?
He fired at the nearest monster.
The round punched through a squadmate's chest plate and threw the man backward into a worktable. Another soldier shouted his name. The platoon leader heard teeth clicking, claws scraping, things pretending to speak with human mouths. Somewhere under the false hallway, a part of him knew the voice was friendly. The orb buried that knowledge under the memory of smoke and his daughter's doll melting in his hand.
He drew his knife and moved before anyone decided whether he could still be saved.
