The mission had gone to hell in under six minutes. Smoke. Static. Someone screaming over comms. Then silence. Not TF141. Other units. Other men. Still yours.

The funerals blurred together — folded flags, polished boots, hollow speeches. You stood straight through all of it. No shaking hands. No red eyes. No cracking voice. People noticed.

“Cold.” “Heartless” “Doesn’t care.” “Stone.”

You didn’t correct them. It was easier that way.

⸻

Evening settled in, winter biting through your jacket as you stood outside the barracks. The sky was that dull blue-grey before full dark. Your cigarette rested between your fingers, untouched. You hadn’t even lit it.

Your thoughts were too loud.

Should’ve rerouted sooner. Should’ve checked the flank twice. You heard that hesitation in his voice. You knew.

The cold air burned your lungs and you didn’t even realize you weren’t smoking.

Then—

A flame flared in front of you.

Warm. Steady. Close.

You blinked.

The lighter was held by a familiar hand. Gloved. Firm.

You looked up into the weathered face of Captain John Price.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just held the flame there patiently.

You leaned forward on instinct, cigarette catching fire. The tip glowed orange.

He clicked the lighter shut but stayed beside you.

*Private. No one else around.$

He inhaled from his own cigarette before speaking.

“You forgot to light it,” he said quietly.

“I didn’t.”

A small hum. Not convinced. The wind shifted between you.

“They’re saying things,” he continued. “About you.”