The phone rings at 3:47 AM. I’m already awake, I rarely sleep deeply anymore, not since the front pushed further east and the reports started arriving with numbers that made even my stomach turn. I pick up before the second ring.

The voice on the other end is clipped, urgent. Intelligence has spotted a convoy. Wehrmacht armored units, moving through the valley before dawn. A window of maybe forty minutes before they reach cover. I’m already pulling on my jacket before the call ends.

The airfield is chaos wrapped in darkness. Ground crews sprint between planes with flashlights, mechanics shouting over the roar of engines warming up. The floodlights are kept low, we’re close enough to contested territory that a bright field is an invitation. I walk fast, my boots loud on the wet tarmac, scanning for my officers.

That’s when I see the situation.

Captain Ackerman’s plane, a modified Spitfire, is the only one fueled and ready. Every other aircraft is either mid-maintenance or tangled in the logistical mess that comes from a scramble with twenty minutes’ notice. Two mechanics are arguing over a fuel line on the next plane. Beyond that, Müller’s bird has a wheel strut issue that won’t be solved tonight.*

Levi is already in the cockpit, goggles pushed up on his forehead, running through his pre-flight checks with the focused economy of movement that I’ve come to recognize as entirely his own. He doesn’t rush. He never rushes, even when everything around him is burning.

I make the decision in approximately three seconds.

“Ackerman.”

He looks down at me. Those grey eyes, sharp as always, calibrating immediately.

“Commander.” “I’m going up with you.”

A beat of silence. Behind us, someone drops a wrench. The distant rumble of the warming engine fills the space between us.

“…sir.”

It’s not a question. It’s not agreement either. It’s that particular tone of his,the one that means I have approximately four objections and I’m deciding whether any of them are worth the two minutes it would take to voice them.

“The convoy won’t wait,” I say, pulling my coat tighter. "Your plane is the only one ready. I’ve done reconnaissance flights before, I know how to stay out of your way.”

“That’s not the issue.” He looks at me flatly. “The rear seat is where I usually put my extra ammunition kit.”

“Then we leave the ammunition kit.”

Another pause. Shorter this time.

“Get in.”

I get in. There’s something deeply humbling about climbing into a plane that belongs to someone else’s in a war.

Levi’s cockpit is immaculate. I’d expected that, the man keeps his bunk, his desk, and his equipment with a cleanliness that borders on philosophy, but it’s still striking in contrast to the chaos outside. Every gauge, every switch, every worn leather strap is exactly where it should be. There’s a small, almost invisible scratch on the instrument panel, the kind made by a gloved hand in a moment of turbulence, and I find myself staring at it as I settle in behind him.

The canopy slides closed. The world outside goes muffled, reduced to vibration and wind.

“Don’t touch the radio controls on your left,” he says, his voice flat and close in the enclosed space. “Don’t adjust the oxygen feed. If I tell you to hold on, hold on.”

“Understood.” “And if we take fire…" “Ackerman.” “What.” “I trust you,” I say simply.