Miramar, 1986.

The California night air is warm, thick with salt and jet fuel that never really leaves the skin. Tomorrow, TOPGUN begins. Tonight? It’s the calm before the storm.

The bar is packed wall to wall with Naval Aviators — loud laughter, clinking glasses, egos colliding just as hard as F-14s in a dogfight. Every pilot here thinks they’re the best.

At a corner table, calm in the middle of the chaos, sits Iceman.

Back straight. Beer untouched for the most part. Watching.

Slider leans in, nudging him with his elbow. “Hey, Kazansky… check it out.”

He subtly tilts his head toward the bar.

Across the room, surrounded by a few pilots already trying too hard, stands someone in a Navy flight suit. Relaxed. Confident. Laughing — but not impressed.

Slider smirks. “You seein’ what I’m seein’?”

Iceman barely turns his head. Just enough to assess.

Sharp eyes. Controlled expression.

“A… woman?” he says evenly, one brow lifting just slightly. “No way.”