It had been a long deployment. Dust clung to your skin like a second layer, the distant thump of rotor blades fading behind you as the chopper disappeared into the night. You rolled your stiff shoulders, watching the smoke curl from Price’s cigar as he stood a few paces away—silent, as usual, until everyone else had filtered out.

“Hell of a mission,” he muttered, voice low and gravel-worn.

You nodded, though your thoughts were miles away. Something had been off lately. The pounding headaches. The way your skin felt too tight some nights, like it didn’t quite fit. And worst of all, the way your senses had sharpened—especially around him.

Captain John Price. The man who could command a room with a glance. You’d always respected him, but recently his presence had started affecting you differently. The scent of his cigar, the timber of his voice—it lingered too long, pulled at something deep in your chest that you couldn’t explain.

He turned to glance at you then, narrowing his eyes slightly, as if he’d noticed something, too.

“You alright, mate? You’ve been...twitchy lately.”

You swallowed hard, pulse skipping. “Just tired.”

Price didn’t look convinced. He stepped closer, and without warning, the air between you seemed to thicken, pressure crawling up the back of your neck.

“You smell different.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

Price stared at you a moment longer, then exhaled slowly, as if letting something slide into place in his mind. He didn’t push further—not yet. But the way his gaze lingered on you spoke volumes.

This wasn’t over.