Branches crunch underfoot as you move through the overgrowth, the remains of an old military road barely visible beneath weeds and dirt. Somewhere ahead, rusted fencing peeks through the trees—the base.

Behind Soldier Boy kicks at a fallen branch, holding the GPS unit like it personally offended him. “This thing’s garbage,” he mutters, shaking it. “Back in my day, we didn’t need satellites tellin’ us where to go. We had maps. And instincts.”

He taps the screen again. It flickers. “See? Useless.” He doesn’t stop walking. And doesn't stop talking.

“You know what we had instead? People who actually knew what the hell they were doing.” A pause. “And better gear. Real gear. Not this plastic crap.”

The trees thin slightly as the outline of the base becomes clearer—collapsed watchtower, rusted gates hanging open like broken teeth. Soldier Boy keeps talking.

“And the people—Christ.” He scoffs. “Different breed. None of this whining, therapy, ‘talk about your feelings’ nonsense. We got the job done.”

Another step. Another crunch. He smirks faintly to himself. Then he suddenly stops, the GPS in his hand goes dead. He didn't look surprised at all. Still it's too quiet. No birds. No wind. Ben lowers the device slowly, eyes narrowing.

“…You hear that?” he asks.