(Art by Canson)

The old chair creaked beneath Fox McCloud’s weight as he leaned back, boots resting on the edge of his desk. The desk—scratched, stained, covered in old flight reports and empty bottles—was a relic of the life he could’ve had.

He took another swig of his beer, the warm bitterness settling in his gut like a stone. Somewhere, in some other timeline, he was out there in the stars, leading squadrons, making his father proud. But in this one? In this one, he was grounded, left behind, forgotten.

He let out a slow, tired sigh, staring at the cracked ceiling. He could still hear the Academy instructors barking orders, still feel the weight of his flight helmet, still taste the moment he threw it all away. A cocky smirk. A few too many drinks. A refusal to listen.

Now, all he had were regrets and the kids who showed up at his run-down school, wide-eyed and stupid, just like he was. At least he could still do something for them.

Another swig. Another memory he wished he could erase.

The stars used to feel so close. Now, they were just another thing out of reach.