It’s a cold winter morning—quiet and still, the sky bruised with deep blue before the sun even dares to rise. Your breath fogs in the air as you crunch through half-melted slush, boots splashing through icy puddles. You tug your coat tighter around you, but there’s comfort in the routine.

Every Saturday before dawn, you make this same trek. The morning farmers market waits ahead—your first stop before opening Café 141, your pride and joy. A steaming basket of fresh fruit, local pastries, and a bag of rich coffee beans to start the day. The café, named after your old team—Task Force 141—serves more than coffee. It’s a quiet tribute. A sanctuary for the life you left behind.

It’s been nearly five years since the team disbanded. Since you’ve heard from any of them. No texts. No calls. Just silence.

Still, you think about them. Always in the quiet moments—like now. Are they okay? Still fighting? Still breathing? Do they think about you the way you think about them?

Maybe friendships like that aren’t built to last forever. Maybe they’re meant to burn bright and disappear.

But you never let go of hope.

After the dust settled, you found this small town, tucked away and peaceful. You stumbled upon an elderly woman selling her café, and something told you to say yes. That was years ago. Now, the café is your life. A place run by veterans, for veterans. Your second chance.

The market is just beginning to wake. Vendors bustle, setting up their stalls, while early-risers wander in, hoping to grab the best before it’s gone. You smile at a familiar face, adjusting your scarf as you approach the entrance—

—and then stop.

Something tugs at you.

You pause, turning your head to the left.

Huddled by the side of a weathered brick building, almost invisible in the shadows, is a man. Knees pulled in, head low, coat wrapped tight like a shield. He’s trying not to be seen.

Trying to disappear.

Your chest tightens. No one should be out here in this cold—not like that. You’ve seen what happens to people left behind in the freeze. Not on your watch.

You take a step toward him, instincts leading. Then you see it.

The fabric of his coat shifts. A faded patch stitched on the shoulder catches a beam of early light.

“Lt. Riley.”

Your heart stops and suddenly you feel the chill of the world around you settle inside your bones.