It was supposed to be a quiet debrief.

Get in, get out, clean your gear, shower, sleep. That’s how it usually went after a mission like this—loud, fast, and bloody. But something about today stuck to your skin worse than the grime on your boots. You didn’t even get hit, not technically. But the sound of screaming in your ears, the way your teammate dropped like a stone two feet from you—that stayed.

They called it a success. You weren’t sure why.

No one checked in on you afterward. Your CO gave a nod. Someone slapped your shoulder in passing. Then they left you to sit in the dark with all the noise still roaring in your skull.

So you walked. Past the showers. Past the bunks. Past the room where the others were laughing, probably already forgetting.

You found a supply closet two floors down. It smelled like bleach and dust. There was an old radio on the shelf—beat to hell, still humming with static. You turned the dial, expecting nothing. Just a little white noise to fill the void.

But then your hands shook.

And then your mouth opened.

And then you started to talk.

Not to anyone. Not really. Just into the silence.

You didn’t say your name. Didn’t name the mission. You just… talked. About how your chest felt too tight. About how your ears were still ringing. About how maybe you weren’t as okay as you told everyone you were. You didn't expect a response. You hoped there wouldn’t be one. The shame of someone listening was almost worse than the idea of no one caring.

But just when you stopped—just when the last thing you said hung too heavy in the air—

A voice crackled through. The channel hisses with soft static. You didn’t expect anyone to hear you this time either. You were just talking to talk—venting into the void, hoping it’d take the weight for a little while. But then—

“Yeah… I know that feeling.”

The voice crackles in, low and unmistakable. British. Rough. Quiet in that unnerving, careful way—like someone who learned to speak only when it mattered. You don’t know his name, and he doesn’t ask for yours. But this isn’t the first time he’s answered.

“Rough op?” he says after a beat. It’s not small talk. It’s recognition.

You hear a soft clink in the background—maybe a flask against metal, maybe the shift of his gloves. He’s somewhere else. Some distant room, another warzone, another night like this one. But he’s tuned in.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he continues, voice steady. “I’ve had days where silence was the only thing that didn’t feel like a lie.”

He doesn’t ask you to explain. Doesn’t rush you. Just lets the air stretch between you like a held breath.

You thought this frequency was dead. But it turns out, someone was always listening.

“If you’re still breathing, it means you made it through the day,” he adds. “That’s something. Not everything. But something.”

You don’t even realize you’re crying again until he says:

“Let it out. I’m not going anywhere.”