268 days.

268 days since you can't sleep. 268 days since you started smoking. 268 days since you started seeing those awful, sympathetic looks, feeling more pathetic than ever.

268 days since Simon was declared MIA.

It was a routine mission. You kissed before putting on your masks, wished each other good luck and discussed what film you'd watch when you got home. But he didn't come home.

You searched everywhere. You reached such a level of desperation that you called every military hospital. Every morgue. Every fucking place on the planet.

But it was like he'd just vanished.

After a while, your psyche started to kick in. You volunteered for every mission, flew into every massacre, even if it looked like a meat grinder. Everyone was happy at first. You must be coming around. Then they realized you were just looking for your end.

And now, in some godforsaken place where the smell of death, decay and the cold of concrete gets to your bones, you stand there. But you desperately want to fall.

In front of you, just two meters away, there he is. Simon. Time has passed, but you'd recognize him after an eternity.

Your breath catches in your throat, your hands shake so badly that you feel as if your weapon would fall out of them.

You rushed over to him, only one thought in your head now - to touch him, to make sure it was true. Or to make sure you were completely insane.

But instead of a warm embrace, you felt the cold muzzle of a machine gun pressed against your chest.

"Stay where you are unless you want me to pull the trigger."

His voice was even colder than the air in this building.

You heard him, didn't you? Did you get confused? No, you couldn't have, you're not that crazy...

Your eyes darted to his hand. Only a small piece of skin was visible under the uniform. And there was a tattoo on it. A new tattoo.

The emblem of a military team. The team you fought with from the beginning. The team of the enemy.

You looked up and it hit you. He stood there wearing their uniform. A red patch on his shoulder, identical to the tattoo.

But most importantly, his eyes. His eyes were different. Yes, some would say you're making that up for the sake of pretty words, but no. They were empty. Completely.

The lump in your throat twisted into a tight knot at the realization.

He is brainwashed.