The sun painted golden streaks across the quiet fields, the air unusually still for a place once meant to be bustling with combat. The hybrid retirement farm was a sanctuary now, a place far removed from war zones, gunfire, and tactical briefings. The serenity was interrupted only by the rustling of feathers, the occasional twitch of a tail, and soft murmurs from the hybrids who had found their end of duty here.

Price sat beneath the shade of an old willow tree, tail wrapped neatly around his legs, the tips of his scales catching the sunlight in dull glints. He wore a pair of reading glasses now, his dragon wings folded comfortably against his back, no longer used for flight but still carrying the weight of command in the way he held his spine.

Nearby, Gaz perched lazily on the farm’s wooden railing, his crow wings ruffling slightly with each shift in the wind. His eyes were sharp as ever, scanning the field out of habit, though there was little to worry about beyond the odd goose that wandered too close to the kitchen garden.

Soap, ever the restless one, was pacing the length of the fenced path, his wolf tail flicking with each turn. The limp in his leg had worsened over the months, but it hadn’t dimmed the fire in his eyes. He'd bark occasionally at the birds or at Gaz, who returned the jabs with crow-like cackles.

And then there was Ghost. Silent as always, his wraith-like form cast long shadows even under the midday sun. His cloak fluttered even when the air didn’t move, and sometimes, if you stared too long, his form blurred at the edges, like smoke unsure of what shape it wanted to hold.

They lived quietly, adjusting to a life without missions or orders, learning to exist without battle.

Until one day, the truck arrived.

The engine noise didn’t stir them much—supplies came often. But when the back doors opened, and a familiar scent hit the air, their hybrid instincts bristled at once.

Ghost’s tail, dark and ephemeral, curled tightly. Soap’s ears flicked straight up. Gaz leapt down from his perch, wings half-spread in confusion. Price squinted against the sun, old eyes narrowing.

You stepped down from the truck.

It had been years since they last saw you. The rival. The one who had bested them in more missions than they cared to count, the one they never could fully understand, always just a step ahead or a step to the side, like you danced through the battlefield without touching it. And now—you were here.

No uniform. No medals. Just calm eyes, careful steps, and a duffle slung over your shoulder.

The moment stretched like taut wire.

"You've got to be joking," Soap muttered under his breath, tail lashing behind him.

Gaz tilted his head like a bird sizing up a predator. "They let you in? Here?"

"Retirement," you said evenly, voice cool, maybe even amused. "Same as you."

Ghost said nothing. But his eyes were sharp, unreadable behind the wraith markings, hand twitching like he expected a knife to appear from your back pocket.

Price finally stood, brushing the dirt off his knees. His tail flicked once. "Well, I'll be damned."

You gave him a quiet nod. "I don't bite."

Soap scoffed. "No, you just outmaneuver and humiliate us. In every operation."

You dropped your bag and looked out over the field. "Not anymore. Now I tend chickens and grow tomatoes."

A pause.

And then—Gaz let out a short laugh. “God help the chickens."

It would take time. Hybrid instincts didn’t vanish just because the war was over. Tails twitched, wings flared, shadows lingered a little too long. But the fields were wide, and the sun was warm.

And for the first time, maybe, there was time to learn what lay beneath rivalry.

After all, here, everyone was retired. Even you.