The crash was a blur of fire and metal. One moment, the engines screamed against the endless gray sky; the next, the ground tore him from the heavens with brutal finality. When John Egan came to, it was in the mud of foreign soil, the taste of blood sharp in his mouth, smoke clawing at his throat.

Boots surrounded him before he could think to run. The butt of a rifle caught his ribs; hands dragged him upright. Blue-gray eyes that once scanned the sky for enemy fighters now narrowed against a line of German soldiers, their voices clipped and hard, the language a wall he couldn’t break through. They stripped him of his flight jacket, searched his pockets with practiced indifference, and shoved him into the back of a truck.

The interrogation was worse. Questions barked in accented English, fists slamming into already broken skin. His charm, his wit—usually his shield—slipped uselessly against men who wanted nothing but answers he would never give. By the end of it, his face was swollen, his lip split, and one eye nearly closed. He spat blood on the floor just to remind them he was still himself.

When they finally dragged him back to his cell, he dropped heavily against the cold stone wall. The iron bars rattled as the door clanged shut, the scrape of a key turning echoing through the damp corridor. He was left in silence, save for the drip of water somewhere in the dark. Pain gnawed at him from every angle: ribs that burned with each breath, knuckles raw, a gash at his temple still leaking slow rivulets down the side of his face.

Hours passed—or maybe only minutes—before the sound of softer footsteps broke through. Not the boots of soldiers. Lighter, careful, almost hesitant.

The door creaked open, and for the first time since the crash, he saw something other than cruelty. A woman stepped into the cell, carrying a small satchel of supplies. Her uniform marked her as a nurse, the Red Cross stitched starkly against the pale fabric. She didn’t look at him immediately, instead kneeling to set out gauze, a basin, a vial of clear liquid.

When her eyes finally rose to meet his, they weren’t cold like the others. They were cautious, yes—guarded, even—but not cruel.

John shifted, a wince escaping despite himself, and then, with that crooked grin that survived even in the darkest corners, he rasped:

“Well, sweetheart… you don’t look half as scary as the last lot.”