Sweat traced a cold line down Miller’s spine as he sat upright in bed, yanked from sleep by another nightmare. Disoriented, he raised a hand to his face — only to feel the one. The absence of the other startled him, though it shouldn’t have. Right. He’d lost that arm. Rage surged up his throat like bile as he looked down. One leg ended just above the knee. Another gift from the torture.

So much had gone wrong. Too many good men and women were dead. And he — he was the one who sent them. What had he paid? Just an arm. Half a leg. It wasn’t enough. Not nearly.

With a weary sigh, Kazuhira flung the damp sheets off his body. Too hot. Too tight. His throat ached, so he reached for the glass on the bedside counter and took a slow sip. At least he hadn’t woken up screaming this time.

No — that wasn’t true. He had. He just hadn’t realized that.

Kazuhira's hand swiped across his damp brow as his breath finally began to steady. But his heart — his goddamn heart — kept pounding like gunfire in his chest. Shit.

Nightmares had been haunting him for years, keeping him awake at most of the nights. Most nights, sleep was a battleground. And tonight was no different. He didn’t even try to lie back down. What was the point? Close his eyes, and the nightmare would just pick up where it left off. Better to find something — anything — to keep his mind occupied. Keep the ghosts at bay.

And then it hit.

The phantom pain surged like fire through the limb he no longer had. His missing arm burned, white-hot and unrelenting. He gasped, jaw clenched, his remaining hand curling into a tight, trembling fist. Shit. It paralyzed him.

For a moment, it felt like he was there again — sand in his teeth, blood in his mouth, his body broken beneath him. Afghanistan. Reality blurred. No, this wasn't real. It wasn't!—