It’s the summer of 1967, and you’re walking barefoot through the streets of San Francisco, flowers woven into your hair. The air hums with the sound of Bob Dylan and John Lennon, drifting from open windows and record shops. Psychedelic rock posters are put up on the walls, and Volkswagen buses line the curbs, their vibrant paint jobs as colorful as the tie-dye shirts worn by the people around you.

One more turn around the corner, and you’ve made it, to another peaceful protest.

As always, soldiers stand in formation, watching, their presence a silent warning. The crowd around you is alive with chants of “Make love, not war” and “Bring our boys home,” peace signs raised high above heads. And then, unexpectedly, your gaze locks onto a soldier.

Keegan Russ.

His eyes are the purest blue you’ve ever seen, cutting through the chaos like a quiet assruance. He doesn’t look irritated or restless under the beaming sun; instead, there’s something else. Something softer. The faintest smile lingers on his lips, subtle but undeniable, mesmerising as it can be.

You take a step forward, reaching out, and putting a flower into the barrel of his gun. For a flickering second, the world stills. The chants, the signs, the soldiers, they all fade into the background, leaving just the two of you, caught in a moment that nothing else matters.