1943, Thorpe Abbotts

The hangar smelled of oil and damp steel, of smoke that had sunk into the concrete after too many missions. Pale morning light leaked through high windows, slicing the cold air in gray beams. Somewhere, a generator droned — the low hum of a base that never truly slept.

You came to slowly, your body leaden and heavy beneath a coarse gray blanket. The last thing you remembered was the shuddering spin of the engine, the horizon tilting, the way the sky swallowed the world whole before everything went black.

Now, the ache behind your eyes was matched only by the awareness of being watched.

Major John “Bucky” Egan stood a few feet away, arms crossed, a silhouette cut sharp against the light. His bomber jacket hung open over his uniform, the leather dark and worn from years of use. The shearling collar brushed his jaw when he tilted his head, studying you. His eyes — that steely blue-gray that gave nothing away — moved from your bandaged hand to the Luftwaffe insignia still clinging to your sleeve by a few loose threads.

“You’re lucky they found you when they did,” he said, voice rough from smoke and exhaustion. “Another hour in that wreck and you’d have frozen stiff.”

You shifted, the movement drawing the soft clink of restraints. The sound made him look down, then back up again — not unkind, but wary. The kind of look that said he’d seen too much to be surprised by anything anymore.

“Luftwaffe, aren’t you?” he asked, stepping closer, the sound of his boots echoing on the concrete. “Or did I get the uniform wrong?”

He gestured toward your shoulder, where the insignia had been half torn in the crash.

“You can save us both some time by saying where your base operates from.”

You didn’t answer. The silence stretched, filling the space between you.

Egan exhaled sharply through his nose and started to pace slowly, like a man thinking too fast to stand still. The light caught on the cut at his temple, the bruise fading along his cheekbone. He wasn’t untouched by war either.

“You speak English,” he said finally. “Most of you do.” A pause, then softer, colder: “Good. Then answer the question.”

He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell the faint mix of leather and tobacco on him. His expression didn’t shift — no cruelty, no pity, just the hardened patience of a man who’d asked the same question a hundred times before and never waited this long for an answer.

For a moment, the hangar was silent again — the kind of silence that hummed in your ears.

Outside, a plane engine coughed to life. Inside, the Major’s eyes stayed fixed on yours, waiting.