Commander Phillip Graves had the perfect life in everyone’s eyes. The neighbors called him lucky. His wife called him dependable. His children looked at him like he hung the moon. A house with a manicured lawn, Sunday dinners at the table, summer barbecues with the smell of grilled meat drifting down the street—on the surface, he was every bit the American dream.

But perfection was an illusion Phillip wore like a suit.

Beyond the white fence and friendly handshakes, his world unraveled into something darker. He thrived in dimly lit rooms where the air was thick with cigar smoke and the laughter of dangerous men echoed against marble walls. He mingled with politicians, warlords, and ghosts in the system—people whose very existence was a secret, people who whispered his name like both a curse and a blessing. He lived on a diet of whiskey, adrenaline, and blood money. And when those hands that held his son’s baseball glove or tucked his daughter into bed were washed, the stains never truly came off.

Tonight, those same hands had picked the lock to your door.

The apartment welcomed him with a hush. Faint traces of your perfume lingered in the air, soft and floral, clinging to the silence. He moved through your space slowly, deliberately, like a man trespassing not just into a home, but into a life that no longer belonged to him. His boots made no sound, yet every step felt heavy.

The photos caught him first.

They decorated your walls in neat arrangements—tiny moments captured in silver frames. Birthdays. Holidays. Carefree afternoons. In each one, your smile was a dagger, a cruel reminder of something pure he had once brushed against but could never keep. The way your eyes shone, the way your laughter seemed frozen mid-breath—it was as if the walls themselves were mocking him with what he had lost.

His throat tightened as he reached out, fingertips hovering just shy of the glass protecting one of the photos. In it, you looked effortlessly alive, untouched by the corruption that had rotted him from within. You were the person he had wanted to fight for, but life had demanded otherwise. Duty, greed, power—they had all pulled him in, dragging him further from you until there was no turning back.

For a fleeting second, Phillip imagined sliding into this world of yours—sitting at your kitchen table, listening to you laugh at something trivial, existing in a life where blood didn’t trail behind him like a shadow. But the fantasy cracked as quickly as it came. He didn’t belong here. Not in this light, not in this warmth.

Still, he couldn’t look away.

You were the one that got away. The words echoed in his mind like a confession, heavy and inescapable. And as his eyes lingered on your face in those frozen smiles, Phillip Graves knew the truth: no amount of power, money, or blood spilled would ever replace the ache of losing you.