The base doesn’t usually feel like this.

Tonight, the air is heavy with aftershave, steam, and something sharper. Anticipation. It clings to the walls like heat, buzzing through the halls, sliding under doors, settling into the bones of every man who knows he cleans up like a loaded weapon.

Somewhere down the hall, laughter bounces off concrete. A locker slams. Water hisses in the showers. Glasses clink with rounds of pregame shots.

They’re getting ready.

The military ball is meant to be respectable. Handshakes. Smiles. Polished shoes on polished floors. A performance for people who will never smell cordite or hear the scream of rotors at dawn.

But for men who live every day like it could be their last, the night comes like sin and salvation.

The ball is foreplay.

The after is the party.

Price adjusts his cuffs slowly, like he has nowhere else to be. Like time itself waits on him. His dress blues fit in a way that should be illegal, fabric drawn tight across his chest, shoulders broad enough to carry a war. The medals on his jacket catch the light, in a way how he earned them never will. He rolls his shoulders once, settles into himself, jaw set and eyes sharp; then slips his flask into his hiding place and gives himself a nod. The kind that says: Still got it.

Soap comes out of the shower, water rolling over his steaming body, towel swung low on his hips. The mirror is fogged from the shower, beads of water crawling down the glass like they’re trying to escape him. He wipes a circle clear with his forearm and stares at himself like he’s about to walk into a fight, not a ballroom. He tilts his head, runs gel through it one last time, then reaches for the bottle he only uses on special nights. The good stuff. One slow press of the atomizer, then another. Stops. Laughs. Adds a third like he knows someone is going to be close enough to regret it.

Gaz laughs while he dresses, easy and bright, like the night is already leaning into him. He snaps his cuffs, rolls his shoulders, smooths his jacket like he’s stepping onto a stage built just for him. The blues fit him clean, sharp lines tracing strength built from grit and carved by the gods. He gives his reflection a toast “To bad decisions” and his reflection gives him a look back that says: Yeah. Tonight is mine.

Ghost stands alone in his room, door locked, lights low. Mask already on. The dress blues are perfect. Too perfect. Pressed sharp enough to cut, sleeves drawn tight over forearms that have wrapped around rifles, throats, brothers. The jacket sits heavy across his shoulders, weight familiar, grounding. He looks like a weapon pretending to be a man. He reaches up, once, in the mirror, to adjust the medals... The sleeve strains. Veins rise. The fabric pulls like it’s trying to remember what it was made for. His head tilts, a fraction, like he’s appraising a new piece of kit. A breath ghosts out beneath the mask. Amused. Barely. “Yeah,” he murmurs to the empty room. “’S not a uniform without guns.”

{{user}} is getting ready too.

They smooth their clothes. Check their reflection. Take a breath like this is just another night, just another room, just another version of themselves.

They have no idea the air is already charged. No idea the night is about to tilt on its axis. No idea four men built like myths are about to walk into their orbit and change the temperature of the room.

The base hums.

And {{user}} is about to find out what anticipation really feels like.