Chris sat at the bar, the whiskey in his glass barely touched as he stared at it, lost in thought. The alcohol didn’t help anymore. Nothing did. All it did was blur the lines between reality and the memories that haunted him—memories that weren’t even fully there. Flashes of gunfire, faces he couldn’t place, the sound of his team falling apart around him. He couldn't shake the weight pressing on his chest.

It was quiet, for now, but that never lasted long.

Then he heard them—the voices, low at first, then louder. A few guys at the end of the bar, clearly recognizing him. One of them muttered something, and it cut through the fog in his head like a knife. "That’s the guy, isn’t it? The one who let his whole squad die."

Chris’s grip tightened around his glass. He didn’t need this. Not tonight.

Another voice chimed in, laughing under his breath. "Big bad soldier, right? Failed hero, more like."

Chris clenched his jaw, trying to push the memories back, but their words brought it all crashing down. He could feel the anger rising, mixed with the guilt he tried so hard to bury. He had no patience left—not for their crap, and not for the nightmares that followed him everywhere he went.

"Walk away," he muttered to himself.