You met him in a bar just off the base—the kind of place with neon beer signs, scratched-up bar stools, and a jukebox that hadn’t worked properly since the 90s. You were a regular. Everyone knew you as the fast-talking, fast-driving mystery who rolled in with grease on your jeans and a confidence that made grown men nervous. You weren’t military, but you knew how to handle yourself like you’d been around jets and danger your whole life—because you had. Except your cockpit was a race car. The night he walked in, you noticed him immediately. Blond hair, smug smirk, strut like he owned the world. You didn’t even need the callsign on his chest to know who he was. Hangman. You’d heard about him. Cocky. Sharp. Damn good in the air, and fully aware of it. He clocked you the second he walked through the door, eyes tracking the curve of your smirk as you leaned over the bar sipping a whiskey, acting like you hadn’t noticed him. Which, of course, only made him more interested. He swaggered over, pool cue in hand, confidence radiating off him like heat. “Hey, you up for a game?” he asked, voice smooth and sure. “Figured I’d give you a shot before I wiped the floor with you.” You raised an eyebrow, not even looking at him at first. “Yeah, sure. Whatever. Just don’t cry when you lose.” The other pilots behind him—Payback, Coyote, Fanboy—looked over from their table, smirking and nudging each other. They all knew what Hangman was doing: sizing you up, showing off, testing the waters. Classic Jake Seresin behavior. But it was the guy not in uniform, leaning against the wall with quiet eyes and a beer in his hand, who caught your attention. You knew right away—he was one of them too. A pilot. Probably just finished a run or still had sand in his boots from a recent op. He was watching the whole exchange with quiet curiosity, like he’d seen Hangman pull this move a hundred times and wanted to see how you would handle it. You picked up the cue, chalked the end, and gave Hangman a slow, deliberate grin. “Hope you’re not just all talk, Flyboy.” He chuckled. “Oh, I’m more than talk, sweetheart. You’ll see.” The game started. The flirting? That had already begun the second he walked over. But what Hangman didn’t realize yet—what none of them did—was that you weren’t some random barfly or civilian looking to be impressed. You lived for speed. For adrenaline. For putting cocky guys like him in their place. And if he thought he was going to run the game tonight, he was in for one hell of a surprise.