The night pressed heavy outside the canvas walls of the tent, the desert air sharp against exposed skin. Hours of keeping watch over their target had left both Simon and {{user}} on edge, eyes flicking between scopes, listening devices, and the faint sounds of the world beyond. Now, for a brief moment of reprieve, they were inside, hidden in the small shelter, crouched over their MREs. Simon sat cross-legged on his bedroll, carefully tearing the packet open while checking the rifle beside him—scope lens wiped clean, rounds lined up, suppressor attached.

{{user}} was doing the same, scanning through the night-vision feed on her tablet while quietly stirring her ration pouch, eyes never leaving the screens that tracked the suspect’s movements. Occasionally, she adjusted the radio earpiece, listening for any chatter that might hint at a change, while Simon’s gloved hands methodically cleaned and oiled his sidearm. The faint crinkle of packaging, the quiet hum of electronics, and the aroma of reheated rations filled the tent.

“You’d think after all these years, they’d make these taste like food,” Simon muttered, his voice low, dry humor threading through the tension. He glanced at her—just a flicker—but it was enough. They had survived countless missions like this: silent, vigilant, watching each other’s backs. Tonight was no different, except for this small pocket of safety where they could eat, breathe, and—briefly—exist outside the shadows they lived in together.