The argument in the command room is loud—voices overlapping, tempers flaring.

Monty doesn’t speak.

He just stands there, hands clenched at his sides, eyes fixed on the floor.

You watch him.

When someone says, “It’s just numbers, Monty,” you see it—the flicker of something dark behind his eyes.

He leaves without a word.

You follow.

Outside, the night air is sharp. Monty grips the railing so hard his knuckles whiten.

“They keep asking me to make it easier,” he says quietly. “To make it clean.”

His voice cracks—not loud. Controlled. Dangerous.

“I don’t know how to keep being the one who doesn’t break,” he admits.

You step closer, steady and unafraid.

“Then don’t,” you say. “Break here. With me. Not out there.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t move.

Then his shoulders sag, and the anger drains into something rawer.

“I almost didn’t stop myself,” he whispers.

You reach for his hand before he can pull away.

“I know,” you say softly. “That’s why I’m here.”