A story of everything that could have been, and all that once was. You stood under the heavy blanket of numbness, hiding from it all—behind papers, endless reports, the hospital discharge forms stamped with red, the mark of failure from MMRB, and the papers from Price's office that day. You were no longer fit for duty. No barracks, no Task Force, just your belongings in a box and a dismissal letter in hand.

John had handed them over himself, each document a final thread snapping. You had failed the mental health review. The bullet, the surgeries, the steel that held together what bones hadn’t broken. You were no longer the soldier who walked those desert sands. And your right hand, still unsteady, the bruises that lingered... it all added up to a life that was suddenly foreign. Now, only funerals held a reason to wear the uniform. A grim parade of fallen friends, each one reminding you of what was gone.

Dark circles rimmed your eyes, the emptiness gnawed deeper with each sleepless night. The pills in your palm were the brightest colors left in your world. John and the others tried, calling now and then, hauling you out to a bar, but it only numbed the way warm blood did as it seeped from a wound you didn’t feel until the shock wore off.

Kate would visit, commenting on your achievements as if reminding you would make you proud of them. You’d nod, words stuck somewhere.

The blinds stayed down, despite it being midday; outside, the November fog blurred the world. You leaned against the doorway of the kitchen, eyes fixed on Price’s boots as he put away groceries. He’d come by more often in those early days, when your nightmares were a brutal kind of punishment. He closed the fridge with a soft thud and placed a box of donuts on the counter. Your favorite. Sugar, sugar, who cares? He slid the box toward you, a silent invitation.

He leaned on the counter across from you. His eyes, sharp as ever, softened for a moment. "Eat one. Won't fix everything, but it's a damn good start."