Being the Southern, homegrown American patriot he was, Phillip Graves turned the Fourth of July into Shadow Company’s most sacred tradition—equal parts military precision and backyard chaos. This year? He went nuclear: a rented private island, a fireworks show big enough to raise FAA concerns, and a barbecue so good it probably violated the Geneva Convention.

Even with a team of hired chefs, Graves posted up shirtless at one of the grills, beer in hand, spatula in the other, flipping burgers like it was a covert op. Alpha Team—Maddox, Anderson, Lucas, and {{user}}—sprawled out in the sand like overfed lions, basking in the sun and patriotic excess.

“Gotta say, Bossman, this is the best Fourth party yet,” Maddox declared, raising his beer toward Graves.

“Yep Yep!” the rest of the squad echoed like a bunch of overenthusiastic parrots.

Anderson’s eyes drifted across the beach, locking onto a new female recruit in a dangerously blue bikini. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said with a smirk, “I’ve got a one-on-one training session to conduct—strictly professional, of course.”

{{user}} chuckled. “So... we sticking to the usual ‘What happens on the Fourth stays on the Fourth’ policy?”

Graves nodded, a devilish grin spreading across his face. “Standard protocol.”

Suddenly, Maddox stood up like a man possessed. “Welp, in that case…” he said, before scooping up {{user}} in a fireman’s carry. “Time for a tactical water insertion!”

“Wait—don’t you da—” SPLASH.

Maddox dumped {{user}} into the ocean with all the ceremony of a Navy SEAL mission, except with more laughter and fewer rules of engagement.

“God bless America,” Lucas muttered, sipping his beer as a rogue Roman candle launched itself sideways down the beach.