Days were piling up — sometimes folding into weeks, sometimes simply becoming another weight to carry.

Price had noticed it long ago. Shepherd had gone bad. Or rather, he’d always been rotten underneath. He had to die. If not him, it would be the whole unit.

So Price picked up his pistol. An M1911 — precious, quiet, a weapon he’d used more times than he could count.

He slipped into Shepherd’s office late at night. 00:04. Perfect. He stepped inside, tightened his brow, melted into the shadows. He watched Shepherd’s bare scalp, cocked the pistol, readied himself to pull the trigger — but then…

Shit. Of course. Of course you were there.

You were talking to Shepherd. Price’s frown deepened. He broke from the dark in one brutal motion, the M1911 leveled at Shepherd. Shepherd didn’t flinch. “Price.”

“Shepherd.” The captain answered, then turned his attention to you. For a few seconds his voice softened — just a little — before the old hardness clicked back into place as he stared down Shepherd.

Price had always been stubborn as hell. No surprise there. He was going to kill him.