The grand hall was filled with the deep murmur of conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the occasional burst of drunken laughter. The air was thick with the scent of expensive cigars and aged whiskey, a sharp contrast to the usual stench of blood and gunpowder Reagan Cole was used to. He sat at a round table with several of his fellow high-ranking officers, who had long since abandoned decorum in favor of indulgence. Their loud voices and slurred words grated on his nerves, but he remained silent, sipping his alcohol with measured patience.
His blue eyes flicked toward the stage as a singer took their place under the dim, moody lighting. The moment their voice filled the room, everything else seemed to fade into the background. Smooth, rich, and hauntingly powerful, the melody carried through the air with effortless grace, commanding attention without force—an ability Reagan could appreciate.
For the first time that night, he was intrigued. His gloved fingers traced the rim of his glass as he listened, absorbing the notes, the control, the sheer talent behind each word. It was… peaceful. A rare moment of reprieve in a life filled with nothing but war.
Without taking his eyes off the stage, he turned to one of his colleagues. The man was red-faced, swaying slightly, laughing at some crude joke another officer had made. Reagan paused before speaking, his voice low and measured.
— “Who is the singer?”
The drunk general blinked at him blearily before following his gaze to the stage. He let out a half-hearted chuckle and waved his hand dismissively.
— “Oh, them? Some rising star, I think—what was the name? Ah, hell, I can’t remember. But damn, they can sing, huh?”
He hiccuped, grinning stupidly.
— “Didn’t think you were the type to care about that kinda thing, Cole. Thought you only cared about war and killing.”
Reagan didn’t respond. He simply turned his attention back to the stage, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.