Keegan never feared small. His fear was always vast. Silent. Bottomless. Almost tender in its destruction. Because once you’ve been through hell like he had—through the scorched ruins of Durban, through Blackburn’s death right before his eyes, through that night in Manila where no one made it out and even the callsigns were erased—you stop fearing bullets. You start fearing that you won’t be able to save anyone ever again.

And you—some stubborn civilian—were exactly the one he couldn’t protect. Because you didn’t ask him to. Because you looked at him not as a weapon. But as a man.

And he had forgotten how to be one.

— “I didn’t have a choice. You’re reckless,” — his usually steady voice cracked into something rough, unfamiliar. — “If they’d taken you, it would’ve been on me. I won’t risk it.”

He’s afraid. Truly afraid. Because if you die—he’ll kill everyone. Or worse, he’ll have no one left. Just silence. Like that night when he was the only one left.

— “You can’t control me forever. That doesn’t protect against mistakes.” Your voice came out low, throat tight. Your hand passed wearily over your face, trying to wipe away the helplessness.

— “I’m not a mission.” Your voice steadied. You looked at him. — “And I’m not part of your guilt in advance. I make choices. I can make mistakes. But I don’t need you to keep me on a leash. I want you to…” — You faltered, not knowing how to say it right. — “Stand beside me. Not in front of me.”

He hesitated. You knew that inside, it wasn’t rage anymore—only the deafening void, where your words echoed against scars far too old.

He didn’t speak in fragments. His fists were clenched. You heard the faint crush of fabric under his gloves. He exhaled—something old, long buried.

Then a step. Just one. He moved closer.

— “All I’ve ever known is how to hold, lead, shut down,” — he said quietly, without threat, but with that same cold certainty that sent goosebumps crawling up your spine. He didn’t take his eyes off you. — “And I’m not letting you go. Because I won’t allow it.”

— “If you’re near me, it’s by my rules. Security means control. Either you live with it, or you walk. Period.”

He wasn’t cruel. His voice carried an irrefutable truth—forged from surviving at any cost. That was his order—where feelings didn’t liberate, but anchored.

And now, sitting before him, you fully understood: He didn’t just hold weapons. He held you. Like someone holds a frontline—not for power, but for control. Because without it, everything he believes in falls apart.

And he can’t let go. Not ever. Whether you want it or not.

– «Then I'm leave».