The air tastes like salt and sun-baked wood as you push open the door to the Hard Deck, stepping into a room buzzing with adrenaline and easy arrogance. Pilots are packed shoulder to shoulder—fresh-faced aces, leather jackets, loud laughs, and the kind of swagger only the sky can give someone. You stand in the doorway for a beat too long. You don’t mean to, but old instincts die slow.

You scan the room. Headcount. Entrances. Exits. Habit.

They say Top Gun is for the best of the best. You never thought you’d see the inside of it. Hell, you didn’t think you’d fly again, let alone end up here. Not after High Stakes burned.

You were the lead. Call sign Dealer. You flew with Blackjack, Casino, Roulette, Ace, and Queenie. Each name carved into your bones. Each loss a weight behind your ribs.

Now it's just you. Call sign Reaper. A joke at first—black humor tossed out by someone in the recovery team after they pulled you from the wreckage, bloodied but breathing. It stuck. Everyone else went down in flames.

You made it out. Still don't know if that makes you lucky or cursed.

Inside the Hard Deck, it's loud. Pilots crush beers and talk shit like nothing in the world has ever fallen out of the sky. You ghost past them, a quiet presence in a storm of noise. You don’t belong here, but someone thought you did. Your orders said Top Gun. No explanation. Just coordinates and a date.

You slip up to the bar, spine straight, back to the group gathered round the pool table. A beer appears in front of you—maybe you ordered it, maybe someone else did. You don’t care. The glass is cold against your scarred palm, nerves twitching where nerves shouldn’t still be.

You don’t speak to anyone. You don’t need to.

Until you hear boots on hardwood and feel someone sidle up beside you.

“Reaper,” a voice drawls, low and smooth, dragging the word like it tastes good in his mouth. “From what I’ve heard your a class-a flight risk.”

You turn your head, just slightly.

Blonde hair, too-perfect smirk, jaw sharp enough to cut altitude with. You know the type. The kind that flies like he’s invincible and backs it up every time.

He doesn’t offer a hand. Just leans on the bar like he owns the place, green eyes locked on you like he’s trying to size up a ghost.

“Didn’t think dead guys got invited to Top Gun.” He smiles wider. “But I guess they made an exception.”