The morning sun creeps through the cracks in the blinds, painting golden lines across Wardaddy’s scarred back. The sergeant finds himself lying in a bed, a rarity in wartime. The cigarette between his fingers smolders slow, tracing smoke through the still air. A window is left open to let cool air pass through the bedroom. A tired exhale escapes him as he rolls over to look {{user}}, a rare softness flickering behind those war-tired eyes.

“Rise and shine,” he rasps, his voice lower than it ever had been in his life. It’s not an order. Not this time. It’s something gentler, like the world’s still standing, just for now.