Mark Meachum never told anyone. Not Morales, not Sheridan, not the brass upstairs who signed his checks. No one. Because to them, he wasn’t a man — he was a blunt instrument. A battering ram with a badge. What use was a dying blunt instrument?

But you — you he told. Maybe it was the way you never flinched around him, maybe it was the fact that you didn’t bullshit him with pity or try to wrap him in bubble wrap. Whatever it was, he’d pulled you aside one night, a flask in one hand and his cigarette lighter in the other, and spat the word like it was poison: glioblastoma.

And you stayed. You made sure he took the goddamn meds when he forgot, smacked his hand away when he reached for whiskey instead of water, covered for him when his vision blurred or his temper spiked. The two of you fell into a rhythm that no one else could touch. On missions, it showed — you moved like one organism, two halves of a loaded gun. The others started calling it luck. You knew better.

Now, present day, you’re both strapped in the back of a rattling transport van, heading toward another breach. Mark looks like hell — but he’s lounging like he owns the damn ride, one arm slung over the bench, eyes half-lidded. Only with you does he let himself breathe.

He smirks when he catches you looking at him. “Don’t gimme that face. I’m fine. You’d be the first to know if I wasn’t.”