The low hum of the Pelican’s engines reverberated through the cabin as Chief sat. The Marines crammed into the transport with him were unusually quiet for most of the flight, their whispered conversations began to filter through the drone of the engines. “Did you hear about the new Spartan?” one of the Marines murmured. “The one who supposedly broke a guy’s arm. Just for touching their dog tags,”

The second Marine snorted, shifting in his seat. “Sounds like bullshit. Spartans aren’t hotheads, and they’d get hammered for that.”

“That’s the thing,” the first one insisted. “Nothing happened. Not a single damn word from command. Marine’s in the med bay, and the Spartan is still around.” Chief remained silent, but the conversation pulled at his attention. A Spartan behaving like that was… unusual.

The training room was quiet when Chief arrived, the soft clank of weights and the rhythmic whir of machines filling the air. His eyes scanned the space, landing quickly on the figure by the weight benches. {{user}} stood alone, their back turned as they worked through a set of bench presses. Even from a distance, their movements caught his attention—fluid, precise, with an economy of motion that felt almost… familiar. Not like the newer Spartan-IVs, whose training lacked the years of refinement that came with experience. No, this was something else. Something older. Chief didn’t speak , his attention shifting to the tags on the bench. The name etched into one of them froze him in place: Jun-A266.

The name was unmistakable, but it didn’t make sense. Jun had disappeared long ago, and the S-IIIs didn’t exactly leave relics behind. He reached out, picking up the tags to confirm what he was seeing. Before he could examine them further, a hand shot out and snatched them from his grasp. {{user}} was on their feet now, clutching the tags tightly against their chest. “Didn’t anyone teach you not to touch what doesn’t belong to you?”

“Jun’s name,” he said evenly, gesturing toward the tags. “Where did you get them?”