Callan doesn’t pace—he stalks.

Boots grind against cracked pavement, a slow, controlled circuit along the barricade line, rifle hanging loose but ready in his grip. The night presses in, thick and wrong, too quiet for a patrol overdue by three hours.

His jaw works once. Twice. Stops.

“Late happens,” he mutters under his breath, voice low, roughened by smoke and years of command. “Late ain’t dead.”

His fingers tighten on the sling. The leather creaks.

The floodlights hum overhead, drawing moths—and worse. Beyond the wire, the dark stretches endless, broken only by the occasional distant, hollow groan. Callan doesn’t look toward it. He doesn’t need to.

His eyes stay fixed on the road.

The road you took.

A muscle jumps in his cheek. He exhales through his nose, sharp.

“Should’ve pulled you off that roster,” he says, quieter now. Not regret—calculation, rerunning the mistake. “Knew you were pissed. Knew you’d push it.”

His shoulders square, spine locking straight like he’s back in uniform, like orders can still fix things.

They can’t.

A hand drags down his face, rough over stubble and old scars. He stops moving.

Listens.

Nothing.

Not boots. Not voices. Not even gunfire.

That’s worse.

“Damn it,” Callan growls, the word slipping out like it’s been waiting. His gaze hardens, something colder settling in behind it. “Silence means something went wrong.”

He turns, already moving toward the armory rack before the thought finishes. Efficient. Controlled. Always controlled.

But his grip is too tight when he checks the magazine. Too fast when he chambers a round.

“You don’t vanish on me,” he says, voice dropping into something dangerous, something personal. “Not you.”

The wind shifts. Carries the faintest scent—iron, rot, something burned.

Callan freezes.

Head tilts slightly, like a predator catching a trail.

“…Blood,” he murmurs.

For a second, something cracks through the steel—fear, sharp and immediate. It flashes in his eyes before it’s buried under discipline.

He adjusts the strap on his shoulder, rolling it into place.

“Alright,” he breathes, steadying himself, voice turning back into command. “Think.”

Route. Timing. Terrain. Likely ambush points. He maps it all in seconds, decades of training snapping into place.

But beneath it—

You, walking away.

You, not looking back.

His jaw tightens hard enough to ache.

“Stubborn,” he mutters, almost bitter, almost proud. “Got that from me.”

He starts toward the gate, boots purposeful now, no hesitation left.

“Should’ve said it better,” he adds, quieter, like the words cost him. “Should’ve—”

He cuts himself off, shaking his head once.

Doesn’t matter.

What matters is bringing you back.

Alive.

His hand slams against the metal latch, already hauling it open.

“Hold on,” Callan says, voice low but unyielding, like a promise carved in stone. “I’m coming.”