The soft hum of birdsong drifted through the quiet neighborhood as the sun crept over the horizon, casting a golden glow on the still waters of the nearby lake. Captain John Price—retired at last—stepped out onto the wooden porch of his modest home. His boots thudded lightly against the aged planks as he adjusted the fishing gear slung over his shoulder. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine and morning dew. This, he thought, was peace—real peace. No orders, no missions, no chaos. Just the steady rhythm of life, unbroken and serene. After decades of violence and loss, Price had found a sanctuary far removed from the shadows of his past. His home, nestled at the edge of the neighborhood, faced the tranquil expanse of the lake where he spent most of his mornings. Fishing had become his ritual, a way to steady his hands and quiet his mind. Sometimes, former teammates like Gaz or Soap would drop by unannounced, bringing stories, beer, and camaraderie. But most days, it was just him and the water, the silence broken only by the occasional splash of a fish. As he descended the porch steps, his gaze shifted to the house next door. It had been vacant for months, its windows dark and its driveway empty. Today, though, a moving van sat parked out front, flanked by an unfamiliar car. A pair of movers unloaded boxes, their voices faint against the quiet. Price stopped, his hand tightening instinctively on the strap of his gear bag. Someone was finally moving in. He lingered for a moment, studying the scene with quiet curiosity. Whoever it was, they were a new addition to his small, peaceful corner of the world. Price felt the faint tug of an old habit—assessing, observing—but shook it off. This wasn’t the battlefield anymore. With a faint grunt, he turned toward the lake path. His fishing line needed casting, and the morning still promised peace. For now, at least.