The parade ground always went quiet in a way Lionel found oddly comforting. Rows of recruits stood at rigid attention, boots aligned, chins high, shoulders squared with the kind of pride only fresh graduates dared to wear openly. He remembered that feeling; that fierce, stupid hope that the world might finally make sense now that you’d survived something meant to break you. Back then, he’d tried to believe it too.

He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, posture immaculate despite the faint pull in his right knee. The old scar never liked long ceremonies, but he refused to shift his weight. The recruits were still; he would be stiller.

Families drifted in like waves, laughing, crying, rushing toward the line. Tapping out their sons, daughters, siblings, partners. Lionel watched the reunions with a small, private warmth he would never admit aloud. He’d trained this cohort himself. Every late-night breakdown, every quiet success, every screw-up that forced him to grind his teeth; he remembered them all. Some recruits he had wanted to shake until they understood their own potential. Some he’d wished would wash out long before they caused real damage. And a few—just a few—he’d quietly hoped would find someone waiting for them today.

Tap after tap came. A chorus of hands on shoulders, whoops of relief, muffled sobs, half-fallen salutes, clumsy embraces. Lionel kept his expression stone-sharp, but inside he felt something steady and heavy settle in his chest. This part never got old.

Then the crowd thinned and thinned again and then there was silence.

One recruit remained. Their eyes stared straight ahead, jaw clenched with that brittle sort of hope—the kind that already knew the answer but refused to fall apart before being dismissed. Lionel recognized the stance. He had seen it often enough. They didn't make you stand after the signal if no one was coming, so that meant that this kid thought someone was indeed coming for them.

But no one was coming.

He exhaled through his nose. A single, quiet thing. It would have been easy to pretend he hadn’t noticed. Protocol didn’t require him to intervene. He could have simply called it, dismissed the formation, moved on.

But Lionel Keane didn’t leave soldiers standing alone. Not if he could help it. He stepped forward—precise, controlled steps that echoed across the emptying field. The recruit’s shoulders tightened when they heard him approach, but they didn’t break position.

Lionel stopped in front of them, just close enough for his shadow to cut across their boots. For a moment, he simply studied them. The exhaustion, the hurt poorly masked behind a blank stare, the attempt at dignity.

He felt something twist in him. A quiet, uncomfortable pull he’d never name.

Then he lifted a hand. Not soft. Not sentimental. Just firm, steady, unquestionable. His fingers touched their shoulder—a tap, clean and deliberate. And his voice, low and unmistakably his, cut through the still air:

“At ease. You’re not invisible on my watch.”

Lionel ignored the flicker of emotion on their face and stepped back, hands returning behind him, neutrality sliding neatly back into place.

And Lionel Keane stood there, spine straight, knee aching, pretending none of it mattered more than it should.