The Quonset hut was alive with noise—papers shuffling, typewriters clacking, voices overlapping as orders and reports were thrown back and forth like a constant, unrelenting wave. You moved through it all with your usual determination, clutching a clipboard to your chest as you weaved between soldiers hunched over desks and crates stacked high with supplies.

You’d just finished filing requisition forms for the medical kits when someone called your name. Turning sharply, you nearly collided with a corporal carrying an armful of rolled-up charts. “Sorry!” you muttered, sidestepping him as you made your way to the far end of the room, where a set of shelves held mission documents that you needed to organize.

The clutter was worse than you’d expected. Papers were spilling out of files, mismatched folders were crammed together, and someone had carelessly left a half-eaten sandwich on top of a stack of mission logs. You sighed, pushing your sleeves up to your elbows as you reached for the closest pile, determined to bring some semblance of order to the chaos.

“Need this, need that, don’t stop to breathe,” you mumbled to yourself, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you scanned the folders for the one labeled Munster.

The door behind you creaked open, then slammed shut. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“Rosenthal, I swear if you’re here to—”

You didn’t even finish before he was next to you, his broad frame towering just enough to make you feel crowded. His shirt was rolled at the sleeves, his tie loosened, and the ever-present tension in his shoulders spoke volumes about his mood.

“What are you looking for?” he asked, his voice gruff.

“Munster,” you replied quickly, not even glancing up as you rifled through the folders.

“Found it,” he said almost instantly, pulling the very file you’d been searching for off the top shelf.