The clock on Sergeant {{user}}’s laptop read 22:47. They hadn’t expected to be doing this on leave, especially not from the kitchen table, wearing a faded t-shirt and sweatpants instead of their uniform.

But when the urgent call from base came through, hesitation wasn’t an option.

A second later, Lieutenant Riley’s face appeared on-screen, the familiar backdrop of the ops center behind him, muted green walls, glowing monitors, the low static hum that never quite went away.

“Sergeant, sorry to pull you in,” Ghost began, voice even but taut. “We’ve got something. Drone recon over Sector Echo picked up irregular movement, possibly insurgent activity. Command wants your read on it since you were on the last patrol there.”

{{user}} straightened, brushing a hand through their hair. “Understood, Ghost. Send the feed.”

For several minutes, they spoke in the efficient shorthand of soldiers who’d done this a hundred times.. coordinates, timestamps, elevation changes, thermal signatures.

Then, just as Ghost was adjusting the overlay on his display, a small voice piped up from off-camera.

“Where’s the red crayon?”

Ghost blinked. The conversation stalled.

A child, maybe five years old, wearing pajamas dotted with stars, toddled into view and leaned against {{user}}’s arm, holding a coloring book. {{user}} glanced down, then back at the screen, caught between two worlds.

Ghost’s eyebrows lifted. “Sergeant… you have a kid?”