The hallway was too quiet for a military base. You could hear the distant hum of machinery, boots echoing in the distance. But around you, silence had teeth—people stared, muttered, or simply turned away, and you felt every second of it burn into your skin.

Rumors had long outpaced the truth.

They said you’d left your team to die.

They didn’t talk about how you’d screamed and fought against your captain’s orders. How you’d stayed too long, dragged your bleeding sergeant behind cover, and nearly got killed trying to pull back someone already gone. How the captain, in her last breath, shoved the mission drive into your vest, hissed “Go,” and pulled the pin on her grenade to stop what was coming.

The footage—eventually recovered—proved everything. Still, no apology came. And eventually, you stopped expecting one.

You stood in front of the briefing room now. Clean slate. New team. But the air still felt the same: heavy, watching, waiting for you to crack.

You breathed in through your nose, rolled your shoulders. The door creaked open.

Six soldiers sat inside, already in their seats. One had his boots on the table. Another was spinning a knife between her fingers. A third gave you a long, slow look, then went back to tapping at a tablet. Their commanding officer, a man with a scar cutting through one brow, didn’t smile. But he didn’t scowl either.

“{{user}}" Price asked.

You gave a nod. “Yes, sir.”

He glanced at a folder on the table, likely your file. “You’ve been cleared. That’s all I care about. You follow orders, pull your weight, and we won’t have a problem.”

You nodded again. Simple. Direct. You liked that.

But the room hadn’t relaxed. Not really. You saw it in the way the knife-spinner leaned slightly forward. How the one with the boots dropped them to the floor, subtly bracing.

They knew the stories too.

You made your way to the empty chair at the end of the table, met each of their gazes in turn, refusing to shrink under the weight of them.