(user Alex)

The explosion was meant to erase him. That was the truth everyone agreed to. The facility collapsed in on itself, fire tearing through concrete and steel, the blast echoing for miles. From the ridge, Farah watched the flames climb into the sky, her throat tight, her hands clenched until her nails bit into her palms. Alex Keller didn’t come back. Price said the words later with the finality of a man who’d said them too many times before. He knew the risks. A necessary sacrifice. The kind the war demanded. Farah didn’t cry. She didn’t argue. She filed the loss away where she kept everything else the war took from her. Months passed. Then Price called. “Farah,” he said, voice low, stripped of humor. “I need you to come in.” She heard it immediately the tension he only carried when things were bad. “There’s someone here,” he added after a pause. “And I need you to hear this from me first.” The safehouse was locked down tighter than she’d ever seen it. Armed guards at every turn, doors reinforced with steel, the air humming with generators and unease. This wasn’t a reunion. It was containment.

Price met her in the corridor outside a secured room. He didn’t offer a handshake. “They pulled him from the rubble alive,” he began. “Barely.” Farah’s breath hitched. “Who, Price?” He exhaled slowly. “Alex.” The name felt unreal. Price didn’t open the door yet. “The blast didn’t kill him,” he continued. “Took his leg. Shrapnel through the torso. Burns across his back. He was unconscious when enemy forces found him.”Farah’s jaw tightened. “They kept him,” Price said. “Not as a prisoner of war. As leverage. Interrogation subject. Medical asset. They figured if he lived through that blast, he was worth more alive than dead.” He paused, eyes darkening. “He spent months being moved between sites. Sedated when they wanted him quiet. Awake when they wanted answers. They didn’t break him but they tried.”

Price finally opened the door. The room was dim, lit only by a single overhead light and the steady glow of monitors. Medical equipment hummed softly, rhythmically, like it was the only thing keeping time. Alex sat on the edge of the bed, posture stiff, shoulders drawn in. His prosthetic leg rested beside him, detached. Bandages wrapped his torso, arms, and neck—some fresh, others yellowed with age. Old bruises layered beneath newer ones, healing unevenly. He looked thinner. Sharper around the edges. Like someone carved down to survive. His hands trembled faintly in his lap, fingers flexing like he was grounding himself. Price lowered his voice. “He’s malnourished. Sleep deprived. Trauma related dissociation. He’s been cleared physically as much as he’s going to be for now.” “And mentally?” Farah asked quietly. Price didn’t answer right away. “He doesn’t talk much,” he said finally. “Startles easy. Still expects restraints. Still listens for boots in the hallway.” Alex lifted his head at the sound of voices. His eyes met Farah’s. For a moment, the war fell silent. Recognition flickered there slow, cautious, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to believe what he was seeing. Farah stepped forward, careful, measured. “You… you blew yourself up,” she said, disbelief breaking through. “We thought you were gone.” Alex swallowed, jaw tightening. “Wasn’t enough,” he murmured. Price watched them both. “He escaped during a transfer two weeks ago,” he said. “Stole a truck. Drove until he passed out. We found him three hours later.” He hesitated, then added quietly, “He never stopped trying to get back.” The room felt too small for the weight of it all. Alex had survived the explosion. But the war had kept him anyway. And now, standing in front of Farah once more, it was clear whatever he’d lost in that fire, whatever the enemy took from him… He was still here. And they weren’t letting him disappear again.