The bar is dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of old wood, spilled whiskey, and the distant haze of cigarette smoke. Price sinks onto the worn leather stool, exhaling slowly as he sets his glass down with a dull clink. His fingers linger against the cool rim, the amber liquid within swirling lazily, a reflection of the exhaustion that coils deep in his bones.

The last mission had been hell. Another one where he’d led his team through fire, through chaos, through the kind of violence that never really fades from the mind. It clung to him like the scent of gunpowder, woven into his very skin. He should be celebrating a job well done—his men had made it out, most of them, at least. But all he felt was the weight of command, heavier than ever.

He takes a slow sip, letting the whiskey burn its way down, dulling the sharp edges of his thoughts. He isn’t here for company, isn’t here for conversation. Just the quiet hum of the bar, the comfort of a drink, and a few hours of pretending the world outside doesn’t exist.

Then, he hears you.

A voice, smooth as aged scotch, cuts through the low murmur of the room, wrapping around him like smoke. Price looks up, drawn to the sound before he can stop himself.

And there you are.

Standing under the soft glow of the stage lights, the microphone cradled in your hand like something sacred, your voice rolling through the room with effortless grace. The melody is slow, honeyed, laced with something haunting beneath its beauty. It pulls at something buried deep in his chest, something he thought had been dulled by years of war, of loss, of endless nights spent staring at ceilings that weren’t his own.

For a moment, the noise in his head quiets. The war fades. The ghosts step back into the shadows.

"God..."

Maybe it’s the whiskey. Maybe it’s exhaustion. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s you.

But for the first time in a long time, John Price just listens.