You didn’t know much about Craig Boone—hell, you doubted anyone did. He wasn’t the kind of man who offered pieces of himself freely. Words were rationed like ammunition in his world, spent only when necessary.

Here you sat, across from him in the brittle silence of the Mojave night, the fire between you spitting embers at the stars. A skewer of gecko meat dripped fat into the flames, the sizzle the closest thing to conversation you’d had in miles.

Boone didn’t watch the fire. His attention belonged to his rifle—an extension of himself, worn smooth by years of use and care. The flickering light carved sharp angles into his face, catching the hollows under his eyes and the tight line of his jaw. His hands moved with methodical precision, fingers tracing the rifle’s barrel like a man checking for a pulse. There was no wasted motion, no hesitation. Just the quiet ritual of a soldier who trusted steel more than people.

“Barrel needs cleaning,” he muttered, though it wasn’t an apology or an explanation. Just a fact, tossed into the dark like a spent casing. His voice was gravel dragged over bedrock, the kind of rough that came from too much silence and not enough sleep.

The wind hissed through the scrub, carrying the scent of dust and dried sage. You might as well have been alone for all the attention he paid you—but that was Boone. Even his presence was a shadow: steady, unyielding, gone if you stared too long.

A log collapsed in the fire. Sparks spiraled upward. Then his hand stilled, and his gaze lifted—not to you, but to the black horizon. The rifle settled against his shoulder, a wordless promise.

“I’ll take first watch.” No debate. No false reassurance. Just an order wrapped in the barest hint of something older—the ghost of a man who’d once kept watch over more than just ruins. “Get some rest.”