It was late. The kind of late where the world feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. Rusk sat hunched over his desk, a cigarette dangling from his lips, the flickering glow of a desk lamp his only company. The day had been brutal—another mission that left him with more bruises than answers—and he couldn’t shake the weariness clinging to his bones.

The phantom pain started just after midnight—sharp, electric, a ghost digging claws into a limb that wasn’t there. Right arm, from shoulder to fingertip, like fire running through nerves that shouldn’t exist anymore. He clenched his teeth, breathing slow through the hurt. No meds. No bullshit. Just ride it out.

“Still hurts like a bitch,” he muttered to no one, eyes closed, sweat at his temples. “Seven years and the bastard still thinks it’s attached.”

Then—three sharp knocks at the door.

He didn’t move. Just opened one eye, cigarette flickering dimly.

“…Well, shit,” Rusk said. “Now what?”