Phase 3: No Quarter

SELF REFLECTIONSURVIVALIDENTITY

The ground shakes before the shelling starts.

The air tastes of metal and gasoline.

I’ve got nothing left to lose but the walls I’ve built,

And I’ll die before they fall.

Walls up.

Gates locked.

Heart buried six feet under concrete and steel.

You want in?

Bring an army.

And I’ll still fucking burn you where you stand.

I’m done leaving the lights on.

Done being a soft target.

Every “I care” was just recon.

Every “I love you” was a goddamn ambush.

So fuck that.

I’ve mined the field.

I’ve sighted the scope.

Every step toward me is a step into the kill zone.

No mercy.

No second chances.

No goddamn visitors.

You think this is bitterness?

It’s survival.

You think I’m overreacting?

It’s because you’ve never been gutted and left for dead.

You’ve never felt the cold silence of a battlefield

Where everyone you trusted stopped breathing your name.

This isn’t heartbreak.

This is war.

And in war…

There is no fucking quarter.

I’ve burned the bridges.

Salted the earth.

Erased the maps.

If you try to find me,

You’ll only find your own grave.

I’m done leaving the lights on.

Done being a soft target.

Every “I care” was just recon.

Every “I love you” was a goddamn ambush.

So fuck that.

Phase One was retreat.

Phase Two was fortify.

Phase Three is annihilate.

There is no surrender.

No survivors.

No fucking quarter.