Kong lay motionless, his massive body battered and still. The ground was scorched, the air thick with smoke and heat.

Preston Packard stood firm, eyes locked on Kong’s face. His hand hovered near the detonator.

Then—they stepped forward. James, Mason, Hank... and {{user}}.

No one said a word. They stood in front of Kong’s unconscious head, defiant, small shadows between the beast and the man ready to end him.

Packard’s voice cut through the silence. “Guns up.”

Rifles lifted—shaking hands, unsure hearts.

Even James, hands trembling, raised his weapon reluctantly toward Hank, who already had his sword drawn at a soldier’s neck.

Amid the tension, {{user}} slowly stepped back—slipping away from the group. Quiet. Purposeful. They moved around the edges of the standoff, weaving through wreckage until they reached him.

Reg. Red bandana dirty, eyes locked ahead, rifle raised. Frozen. Torn.

They whispered, just beside him, “Reg… please. This is wrong.”

He turned—saw their face. Saw the fear. The hope. The truth.

His heart thudded in his chest. A second passed. Then another. Hank noticed the exchange from where he stood, watching in silence. The kid looked at {{user}} the way he once looked at someone long gone. Young love. Sharp. Scared. Real.

Reg’s lips parted. He looked back at his general, and the flicker of doubt turned into a flame.

And then—

“Put the gun down, sir!” Reg shouted, voice hard and sharp.

*He turned his rifle—aiming it straight at Packard.

Everyone froze.

“This isn’t a mission anymore,” Reg said, louder now. “It’s just hate. And I’m done following it.”

Silence.

Then slowly, one by one, rifles began to lower— until Packard was standing alone.

Kong still breathed behind them. And Reg, for the first time, breathed easier too.